


Scalpel & Needle II

by KalendraAshtar



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Complete, F/M, PTSD, Relationship Struggles, Surgeons AU, doctors without borders, non-canon, war zone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-05-29 12:35:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15073280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KalendraAshtar/pseuds/KalendraAshtar
Summary: This story is a direct sequel to Scalpel & Needle.





	1. Zero-Sum Game

**Author's Note:**

> This story (Arc II: Deep Tissue) is preceded by Scalpel & Needle (Arc I: Incision) and I strongly recommend a read before going into this one. However, if you think it’s the best thing for you, feel free to pretend this sequel never existed. This arc will explore lots of aspects of a relationship - some happy and light-hearted, some difficult and non-canon, so feel free to search for other readings that might better rock your boat.

##  **_Part I – Zero-Sum Game_ **

One hundred eighty-four days had passed since Jamie had gone to Syria. Ninety-six days since Claire had last heard his voice, amounting to two-thousand three hundred hours, which by all accounts seemed to give a much better sense of the enormity of time elapsed.  

Claire groaned when she swallowed a mouthful of cold water, her throat sore and burning, as if a fiery caterpillar had decided to a make a nest of her tonsils. Every muscle ached, and the bloody virus undoubtedly had found a way of igniting an unhealthy furnace inside her. Her nose was a pit of misery, where green snot ran uncontrollably, and her head seemed to have taken a leave of absence from the top of her shoulders. There was no bodily fluid or cavity that didn’t feel like complete desolation.

She sniffled in front of the kitchen counter, debating if there was any real sense in trying to eat a proper meal, since everything tasted like phlegm. Deciding that a third nap for the day was a much better option, Claire padded to the bedroom carrying a simple red apple, her fingers mindlessly brushing the fabric of the oversized blue t-shirt she was wearing.

With an unladylike whimper, the female surgeon practically dove into the mattress of the large bed. Quickly and instinctively, she craned her neck against the pillow, inhaling deeply.  _There_ , but  _almost gone_.

In the first few weeks of his mission, Jamie had been stationed in the simmering but fairly safe city of Damascus, after the  _Doctors Without Borders_ convoy had crossed the Syrian border coming from Lebanon. In spite of the conflict being ever-present, the heart of the war now pulsed further North, where rebels and regime battled for control over a graveyard of civilians. Jamie had been tasked with one-on-one training of local doctors, since they were predominantly underprepared, poorly trained and decidedly lacking convenient supplies. Although it hadn’t been a daily occurrence even in those days, he had managed to phone or text with some regularity; but that had changed drastically three months before.

_“I’m being transferred to Raqqa.” Jamie had told her, the line crunching with static, like bubble wrap between the fingers of a child. He seemed to be using a very ancient phone to make the connection, probably resistant enough to survive a blast. “There are barely any doctors left there. Most of them fled or died during the last shellings.”_

_“You’re already three months in.” Claire retorted, nervously fidgeting with a scrap of paper. She had been awake for almost forty-eight hours, solving all kinds of mayhem at the hospital. Her eyes and skin felt raw, as if he was skinning her alive with his voice._ The blade of his absence successfully separating epidermis, dermis, hypodermis, flesh, bone.  _“So, I’m guessing it will be six months after all?”_

_“Aye.” He paused, his soft breathing filling her ear, as it did when he nuzzled her neck after he had come unto her. “I’m sorry, Claire. I can’t leave without doing everything I can.”_

_“I understand.”_ And she truly did most of the time.

She understood when she watched the news - vibrant bodies, collapsed after a chemical attack, being carried away by arms on the limits of exhaustion. She understood when she read about another vessel shipwrecked, souls of migrants drifting away in the water like precious fishes, perhaps on the final journey for a real home. She understood when Jamie called her, and his voice was urgent but lively, accomplished, pulsing with purpose like a hive of busy bees.

But there were times when understanding was harder, when it all felt like a perfidious zero-sum game, his conquests coming at the expense of her own heartbreak. When she remembered their final kiss at the airport, Jamie’s tongue tasting of dark coffee and creamy butter from his breakfast, but also sadly sweet from all the words left unsaid. When she would find an old handwritten note in one of her pockets and felt a sense of absolute wrongness, as if the letters he had left behind could be useful in bringing him home, the dot on the “i” a trampoline he could use to jump across the world and into her arms. When she inadvertently broke the bottle of his perfume, during a sleepless night of cleaning and wondering, and she was cursed with the smell of him like a solid thing she could bite and swallow, except it would vanish completely, leaving nothing in its place.

_“Dinna watch the news.” He said softly. She could hear other voices talking behind him, words she couldn’t understand but sounded like frustration. “It will be bad. I don’t want ye to worry too much.”_

_“You know my television habits consist basically of “The Great British Bake Off” and boring documentaries. No time to watch out for sarin gas. I barely think about you anyway, Fraser.” Claire joked, but her voice betrayed her. It quivered and hitched, as if it was kneeling before him in pleading. “Come home to me.”_

Raqqa had been a bastion of the  _Daesh_ for several years; the devastation had started even before bombings turned buildings and streets into piles of rubble. Women had been stoned to death for no other crime than not being a man, sons forced to kill their fathers and severed heads displayed around the central square, silently accusing both survivors and perpetrators. Walking on the streets was a permanent hazard, since landmines crawled under the ground like rats in a sewer. Claire had discovered all these things, fervently searching the Internet for knowledge that would bridge the gap, until those details of horror made her throw up violently. In that post-apocalyptic scenario, it was no strange thing that communications were almost inexistent.

The time of deafening silence between them had started.

Claire would come home to be greeted with a disheartening  _“No-new-messages”_ in a metallic impersonal tone. She toyed with her phone, writing text messages she would never send, since they stayed forever pendent from the lack of an available receiver.

_“Did a hepatoportoenterostomy today.”_

_“I don’t like you very much right now. But I still love you.”_

_“Leoch has a new manager. Massive bloke, seems to know his rugby. You’ll like him.”_

_“Happy birthday, Jamie.”_

_“Drunk and horny. And lonely.”_

_“Gorged all the sushi in Edinburgh tonight. I’m disgusting.”_

_“Where are you?”_

_“Will you come back?”_

_“Please –“_

She would play over and over the last message Jamie had left in her voicemail, a week after arriving in Raqqa, when her hands had been immersed in human flesh to the elbows – the only circumstance she failed to receive his call, since she had taken the habit of carrying her phone everywhere, even to the edge of the shower.

_“Claire.”_

The way Jamie said her name. She played it again.  _Once more_ , with her eyes closed.  _“I don’t know if I’ll be able to call again. This is hell. I love ye.”_

 _This is hell. I love ye_. Even in hell, he had thought of loving her. She fell asleep while hitting play again, her fingers stretched mid-air to touch the memory of him. Claire dreamt of his kiss that night and never cared that his lips tasted like blood.

It wasn’t his absence  _per se_. She was used to being alone and had been reluctant to accept his presence in the first place. There was still such novelty in their togetherness, to the point that they still made complete sense apart.  It was the possibility of the absence becoming  _permanent_. It was the fear of the days that stretched into weeks and months, making them again strangers to each other. It was the prospect of an  _“I love you”_  told only once, whole-heartedly, but meaning no more than a full-stop when she had intended it to be a comma, full of words to follow.

Her phone buzzed violently on the nightstand and Claire moaned, quickly uncovering her head from the blankets where she was immersed. In her screen blinked the photo of a redheaded woman, smiling mischievously. Claire felt silently judged by her green eyes.

“Hey.” Claire rasped out. Her body throbbed with discomfort, a sickly sweat dripping down the back of her neck, while the skin of her arms prickled with goose bumps. “What’s up, Geillis?”

“Where are ye?” Her friend sounded from the other side and Claire winced with the apparent loudness of her voice. Her head felt like a cracked eggshell, her thoughts whisked like egg whites into fluffy airy piles, weightless and impossible to shape.

“Home.” The doctor retorted dryly, smacking her lips in annoyance.

“No, ye’re  _not_.” Geillis protested, sounding unpleasantly bubbly. “I’m at yer door and I knocked enough times to raise the deid. Even yer sick arse would have opened by now. Are ye at  _his_ place again?”

Jamie had offered her a key, that she had been unable to accept until the perspective of his departure had turned into staggering reality. The house might be vacant of Jamie, but it was the place where she managed to find him more easily, as if the echo of his laughter would still bounce back against the walls to hit her ears. The traces of his presence were little surprises, a treasure hunt she endured gladly, secretly hoping he might be expecting her at the end of it.

“His bed is bigger than mine.” Claire replied haltingly, trying to sound nonchalant for someone who couldn’t breathe through the nose. “More space to spread my misery.”

“Ah!” Geillis snorted. “Please, tell me ye haven’t been sniffing his underwear. That would be so pathetic and sad. And ghastly.”

“Rest assured I can’t really sniff anything at the moment.” The surgeon coughed a little and turned on her side, feeling mightily drowsy and lightheaded. “Besides, everything is pristine in this apartment. Now, unless you’re about to send me some chicken soup over the phone, I’m hanging up.”

“Have ye watched the news today?” The nurse asked finally, sounding forcibly casual.

“Should I?” Claire whispered, her heart hammering like mad from the increased demands of her fevered body and apprehension. “Was it gas again?”

“ _Mustard.”_  Her friend said softly, as if the tone of her voice could serve as a protective cushion against bad news. “Not the type I’d like on my hotdog, I gather. But I’m sure Jamie is perfectly –“

“No, you’re not.” Claire said in rumble. “No one can be certain of anything. It’s just wishful thinking at this point.”

“Try to rest.” Geillis pleaded, her voice flat with concern. “I have to go assist on a procedure. I’ll check on ye later.”

Claire tried to rest indeed, not because of any particular penchant for forgetfulness, but because her body was rebelling against her. Even laying down, the muscles of her legs cramped and burned, and the mere suggestion of light seemed like thunder behind her eyelids. She trashed against the moist sheets, an acrid tang of disease creeping inside her blocked nostrils, which she suspected came from her own body.

“Beauchamp.” She heard a faint voice whisper, somewhere in the corner of the room. “Wake up.”

“Hmmm.” Claire wordlessly protested, her jaw tensed and painful.

“Ye’re still a lousy patient.” The voice proceeded, amused. “I’ve been away for sae long and this is how ye greet me?”

Claire partially opened her eyes – her fingers moving over to physically peel off her stubborn and purulent lashes – and she saw Jamie, sitting on the armchair in the corner of the room. The last time she had seen him there, he had been half-naked drawing her body after he had thoroughly made her come. She almost blushed, embarrassed that she could think of sex even in the midst of a bout of sickness, and while contemplating what could only be a ghost.

“You’re not real.” Claire covered her eyes again, feeling like a child playing peek-a-boo. “ _Fuck_ , I’m really losing it.”

“How can ye be sure I’m not real?” Jamie pointed, his lips curving on a smile. Her memory had overlooked the slight dimple on his cheek when he laughed, Claire realized with a thud; the thought almost made her tear up. In an instant, as if he was a drawing she could correct with pencil and eraser, the dimple had returned to his face.  _Perfect._

“You’d be all over me if you were really here.” She snorted with fake mirth.

“Ye’re too sick, lass.” He shrugged, his blue eyes piercing her. “I expect that I can control myself in such circumstances.”

“You haven’t had sex in six months.” Claire huffed, rolling on her stomach. That way she could avoid looking straight into his face. “ _Hopefully_ , I mean. I know _I_ can’t control myself. So, this –  _you_  - are just an hallucination caused by high fever. My brain is frying.”

“Ah.” He offered her a throaty laugh, one that made her want to insert her own fingers through her throat and rip her heart out. “I  _missed_  ye, Beauchamp.”

“I missed that laugh.” She admitted regretfully, biting her bottom lip. “When are you coming back?”

Jamie paused and he looked distant for a beat, sadness making his face less vivid.  _Undefined_. “Maybe ye should read those letters, aye?”

“No.” Claire moaned, slightly shaking her head. The letters had been stored in the drawer of the nightstand – sometimes, she would look at them for a long period, asking questions only the one who wrote them could answer. But she never opened them. They meant  _the end_. “You are  _not dead_.  _Go away_.”

“Would ye rather know I was dead?” Jamie whispered, his voice almost a buzz, escaping her with every syllable. He was vanishing. “Or would ye rather know I forgot ye?”

 _This is hell. I love ye._  

But that had been three months ago.


	2. Ribcage

##  **_Part II - Ribcage_ **

The fact that Claire was standing in the middle of the living room, half-dressed and tousled - cursing and hissing in search of a pair of missing sneakers,  _bloody hell_ \- when the key turned on the lock of the front door, was nothing but a fortunate coincidence.

She stood there, with her mouth half-open in perfect surprise, paralyzed by the unforeseen sound. At first Claire almost didn’t recognize him, and for a brief moment her brain contemplated the frightening - and most certainly shameful - hypothesis of being robbed while not wearing any pants.

His face was gaunt, as if the earth that was his body had quickened and shifted, building valleys and lines - rivers really, for there must had been water running down aplenty over those high cheekbones - to reshape his features. His body used to talk of physicality and strength, but those generous lines had turned into whispers of malnutrition and exhaustion, even hidden as they were underneath a battered black t-shirt. For once he didn’t seem larger than life, instead thoroughly consumed by it.  _Fragile. Helpless_.

That mere thought broke her.

_Jamie_.

The inventory continued, flooding her brain within the next two heartbeats. As Claire’s blood hummed through her aortic valve, she realized he had clipped his hair very short, probably for practical reasons, and even his usual vivid red was dulled.   _Tap_ , her tricuspid valve closed, preventing reverse influx – oh, to go  _back back back,_ not in the chambers of the heart, but  _in time_  – and his blue eyes seemed almost the same,  _not quite_ ,  _just enough_.

Her throat had become uncapable of forming sounds, Claire could have sworn, such a complex mechanism forgotten just from the sight of this stranger, that was also the man she loved.

“What are you doing here?” She managed to ask, stupidly. All other things running inside the fast tracks of her mind seemed to be too overwhelming to be put into words, so there was security in trivialities. In a second, Claire might comment on the weather.  _Slightly chilly for the season, and the rain they are predicting for the weekend, such a bummer._

“I live here.” Jamie answered softly. He sounded hesitant, almost fearful, as if there was a chance that he might have the wrong address after all. “I didna ken ye’d be here.”

“I stay here… _sometimes_.” Claire gulped down, her fingers squeezing the solid fabric of her shirt against her thigh. This time she suspected he was real, because not even her imagination could conjure up such a change in his demeanour. “You cut your hair.” She offered, perhaps her lips even arched on a timid smile, cutting away any harshness.

“I had to.” He brushed it with his fingers, that coppery grass, a gesture akin to the way he used to muss it up when he was nervous. “Lice, ye ken?”

“It suits you.” Was that a lie? Or something that became truthful in the act of saying it, dreams made flesh, words made actual opinions after uttered? “Why didn’t you call, telling me ye were coming?” Claire asked, seeking his cobalt eyes with her own.

_Why didn’t you call to tell me you were alive? Why didn’t you call to tell me you loved me again? Why didn’t you call, damn you?_

Jamie licked his lips – chapped from too much heat and exposure – and slowly placed his backpack on the floor next to his feet. It was thorn and slightly dusty, from sand blown half a world away. He swallowed hard, lightly tapping his fingers against his leg.

“I thought –“ He started, but his reasoning was spectacularly interrupted by a lightning bolt of gray fur, running into the hallway like the miniature of a raging bull, tail armed like a feather duster. The small cat looked at Jamie with ghostly green eyes and meowed unpleasantly, admonishing the intruder. “ _What is this_?”

“ _Adso_.” Claire kneeled and tried to grab the fluffy feline to greet his host, but he amiably – and quite regally – pawed at her hand, avoiding capture. She clicked her tongue in frustration, but the kitten glanced at her with amused condescension. “I got him as a gift to you – happy belated birthday, by the way.” She explained haphazardly, as the domestic cat sprawled on the floor, his front legs crossed in a graceful manner, like a lenient king about to hold court. “You’ll get along just fine.” The female surgeon finished chirpily and Adso seemed to almost smile under his whiskers, silently promising they  _would not_.

“Ah, well –  _thank ye_.” Jamie looked suspiciously at the new alpha-male of his dominions, detachedly licking his right paw, leaving the two peasants to their conversation. “ _Claire_.” He breathed out and his voice reached out to her like an open hand, the yearning stretching as five open fingers, ready to touch her.

_Claire_. He sounded just as he did on that missed call. Absolutely _lost_  and absolutely  _in love with her_.

With a whimper, Claire startled and moved to him. She doubted her ability to kiss him without crying, her tongue trapped inside the cell of her teeth in sobs that would wreck her body, so instead she placed her palms open against his chest.  _Real, real, real_ , his heart chanted brokenly with each systole and diastole. “I  _missed you_ , Jamie.” She sighed, her voice unhinged.

Jamie’s arms came around her then, with painful urgency, and he squeezed her into the body that was now his; the softness of her breasts, free under her sleeping shirt, pressed against the hollow spaces of his ribcage; they felt like a fence, one she might invade by jumping over a plank, in order to reach the paddock where his heart rested. His waist felt bony, his iliac crests like rising mountains against her own, the strangeness of their sameness striking.

His fingers dove into her hair, pulling delicately, her curls travelling on his fingers like riotous waves on grainy sand. Claire wasn’t sure which one of them sobbed in bliss, both too eager and afraid to give away even an inch.

While anger was present in her mind - yelling demanding questions that started with  _“why”_ ,  _“when”_ ,  _“how could you”_  -, it seemed to pale in comparison to the joy and longing that assaulted her like a gut punch. For the moment,  _he_ was enough.

With a decided hand, Claire started to undress Jamie, biting her bottom lip at the sight of his changed body. Every softness filled by good meals, lazy mornings of lovemaking and dawns of working out had been erased, mercilessly replaced by bone, tendon and a fine layer of hardened muscle. Jamie had become a scalpel in more than name, sharpened to a point where it hurt to touch him.

Her lips searched his skin, tracing the bold lettering of his tattoo with the tip of her tongue, reassuring herself that some things might yet remain the same. Jamie was opening her shirt, his thumbs grazing her hardened nipples, touching her necklace again and again, as if he couldn’t quite believe she had kept it in his absence.

When their lips finally found each other, they were desperate and reckless with each other, almost brutal; pain was  _good_ , pain was a relief, as they were only able to feel it because they existed again in the same place, at the same time. That pain meant they were  _together_  and no painkiller could take it away.

The tips of Claire’s fingers felt small new scars all over his body; a map of stories he hadn’t shared with her. Maybe the tip of a blade just above his left kidney; maybe a lost shrapnel just underneath his shoulder blade. Were there any names carved there, in the slightly golden and sunburnt skin? Would she find people living there too, more real to him than her?

“Ye’re _beautiful_.” Jamie said in a husky voice, fondling the curve of her buttock. She growled in response and bit the curve of his neck, wishing to insert herself into his bloodstream. They slid to the floor together - scaring Adso, who threw them an annoyed look as he waddled towards the kitchen. Limbs groping and securing, half-finished touches like half-finished conversations, until they were almost joined.  

“I dinna have a condom.” Jamie was breathing fast and superficially, tracing the outline of her face.

“Your bedroom.” Claire tasted his upper lip, sucking until he hissed. With a demonstration of residual power in spite of his slimness, he lifted her and carried her to his old room, now made into her den. There were surgical notes on the nightstand, a ring with a blue stone on top of his dresser and two white sneakers peeked from underneath the bed.

Jamie laid her down on her stomach, her arms outstretched above her head until her shoulders threatened to escape their joint, as her hands were trapped inside his calloused fingers. He was covering her with his body, perhaps shielding her away from things she couldn’t yet see, that he had brought with him from his mission; but the fact that he had chosen to take her without looking into her eyes wasn’t lost on her either. As he entered her, his breathing came hot and moist against the back of her neck, and Claire almost dissolved into the mattress.

He didn’t last very long, only enough to make her come with such intensity that his name seemed to be carved behind her eyelids, made of red ink that blotted a little. Then he yielded too,  _Gaelic_ streaming of his mouth like he had forgotten all other words, reduced to the simplicity of his first years. Jamie’s cheek was against her spine, bone calling to bone, and the moistness she felt could have been sweat, but maybe also tears.

Eventually he rolled his body off of her and Claire could glimpse at his face, where his eyes remained lively and tender. His hands sought each other, fingers playing and battling like little creatures. It seemed  _unbearable_ not to touch.  

“Will you tell me?” Claire asked him, her voice hoarse. “About your time in Syria?”

“I’ll try.” Jamie answered, nodding slightly. “Some things – might take some time. I dinna have words yet to describe what I saw – and  _did_  – there.”

“I know you told me not to,” The female surgeon said haltingly, caressing the curve of his shoulder. “But I saw the news. It must have been incredibly hard.”

“At first I thought –  _well_.” He smiled weakly, as if he was somewhat embarrassed. “I  _thought_ I was ready for it and that I would make a real difference. That was verra presumptuous and naïve of me. The first few weeks after I went to  _Raqqa_  were so terrible it all felt –  _unreal_. Like watching a movie without the ability to press pause.”

“I understand.” Claire touched his short hair, which prickled her palm.

She had ghosts of her own, of course – herparents, Uncle Lamb, Frank, Ewan and Firouz, only to name the most notable ones. But she was also beginning to think that the ghosts following Jamie had turned into an endless crowd during his time away, able to block away his vision of the ones still living. “But Jamie, are  _you_  back now? Are you –  _home_?”

“In the early days I did what I could to survive and help others.” Jamie explained in a hushed voice, kissing her temple. “And one day I reached a point where it all seemed… _natural_. It became the everyday life, as watching rugby or going to the  _Royal Infirmary_  used to be.” He looked away for a moment, his face distant, flying over continents. “And now I’m here and  _this_  doesn’t seem _real_  at all. I want verra badly to be back, but I don’t know how, yet.”

Claire swallowed hard, fighting back tears. “That’s alright. We have time.”  _Thank God_ , time together was still a possibility. With the gift of time all could be restored.

“I love ye.” He whispered fervently. “That is the only certainty I have left. The only thing that  _never_ changed.”

And she believed him. But as Jamie drifted off to slumber in her arms, Claire wondered about the secrets weighing so heavily on his heart, preventing him from smiling in his sleep when she touched him.


	3. Tethers

##  **_Part III - Tethers_ **

Slowly but surely Jamie started to come undone.

Claire had nonchalantly proposed that he took a few days to rest before going back to work at the  _Royal Infirmary_ , a dash of assertive-Chief-of-Surgery mixed with cool-but-concerned-girlfriend; undoubtedly the strains of a long trip, months of malnourishment and bone-deep tiredness called for a proper vacation. All those things were true, of course, but during that time Claire planned to watch him carefully for any signs of an impending meltdown.

At first it had been a small thing here and there.

Jamie had developed a furious distaste for any type of wasted food, becoming cranky and annoyed when some leftovers could still be found in the pan after their dinner. He ate with the frugality of a Tibetan monk, completely devoided of his previous enthusiastic enjoyment of food, managing to turn any meal into a tiresome task. Claire did her best to swallow every last crumb, even if it meant becoming indisposed afterwards and having to redouble her workouts.

He had barely gained any weight back since his arrival. Jamie paraded around his flat in his old clothes, looking like a child wearing his father’s shirt. The sight caused Claire tremendous heartache, but Jamie had forbidden any attempts at spending money buying him new things. So, he went on, a walking allegory for a man whose life had ceased to fit altogether.

When they went shopping together for supplies for their respective houses, he markedly pursed his lips anytime Claire grabbed for a slightly expensive hair conditioner or extravagant tropical produce. On more than one occasion, Claire had to bite the inside of her cheek and clench her teeth, counting to ten –  _or a hundred_  - inside her head, in lieu of bashing his head with a passion fruit. He was clearly troubled, yet uncapable of meeting his uncanny attitudes with proper words to explain himself.

Jamie slept fitfully with the lights turned off, spending the majority of the night getting up from bed, where she pretended to sleep, to look through the window or wander across the living room, adjusting picture frames or reorganizing perfectly ordered books. One night, Claire simply left the soft corner lamp turned on, pretending to have forgotten it by accident, and he managed to sleep almost the entire night, smoothing somewhat the deep dark circles around his disturbed blue eyes.

He toggled between meticulously avoiding any footage playing on the television relating to Syria and a fevered examination of newspapers and death counts. It was a duality that left her reeling, unsure about the right way to proceed around him. It seemed like a reluctant Adso had become his favourite interlocutor – possibly for the lack of any coherent response or human reproach – and Claire would sometimes hear the male surgeon in another division, speaking quietly in  _Gaelic_ to the unperturbed feline.

But  _his dreams_  – his dreams talked when he couldn’t. After making love to Claire with a distance that made her feel unseen, avoiding her eyes even if his touches talked about utter tenderness and worship, he would retreat to a land where he could punish himself freely. The small noises he made were the shards of words, broken inside him and struggling to get out, bleeding him until his skin was dead cold. The night seemed to have too may hours and the room too many shadows, all of them for each to endure alone.

The first time Jamie told her something significant about the past few months, he was inside the shower, his voice partially muffled by the running water. Claire was sitting on the toilet – it had been an imperative  _urgency,_ otherwise she wasn’t fond of sharing such  _intimacies_ – and he just started talking.

“There was a wee lad there.” He said above the splatter of droplets and shampoo. “He must have been no older than three years. His whole family was already dead –  _sarin_ , I think. I bagged him for over two hours, because the last ventilator available was under a pile of rubble. My arms were so tired, Claire.  _So tired_. I tried to keep going for as long as I could. Eventually I had to stop.  _I stopped_ , aye?”

Claire had to put her closed fist inside her own mouth to stop herself from sobbing aloud. When she thought her voice might be steady enough, she whispered a gentle  _“But you tried. It wasn’t you fault, Jamie.”_

The next revelation came late one night, when she was doing dishes, the kitchen lights dim. Adso was sitting on the corner next to his new feeder, looking partially hypnotized by her movements, his eyes closing and opening like a traffic light. The female surgeon knew Jamie was standing behind her, looking at her intently, as if he could plant all those memories inside her head for her to examine, without the need for him to actually verbalize them.

“There is no respect for civilian life there. No respect for life  _whatsoever_.” He inhaled sharply. “The hospital got shelled quite a few times. One of those times I was in the middle of a surgery and refused to leave when they came to evacuate us. I took a bit of shrapnel.” That confirmed her suspicions about the scar under his shoulder blade. The glass she was scrubbing almost shattered under the force of her gripping hands. “It healed quickly enough.” A pause, just a little  _too long_. There were moments I wished  _it didn’t_.”

Claire’s breath hitched on her throat. She forced herself to remain composed, a neutral detachment that would keep him talking. “Is this why you are punishing yourself?” She asked delicately. “Because  _you are_  alive?”

“I’m not  _punishing_  myself.” Jamie retorted, his voice harsher than usual.

Claire turned to face him, absorbedly cleaning her hands on the yellowish dish towel. For once, his eyes didn’t shy away from her. “ _Really_? Because it surely looks like it from where I’m standing.” Her voice came out soft, in spite of her bluntness. “You refrain from eating, you do nothing that truly gives you pleasure.” Her hawk-like eyes studied him intently. “You’re acting like a ghost. Are you pretending to be dead until it actually happens?”

Jamie clenched his jaw and Claire could have sworn she heard his teeth protesting. He breathed deeply – once,  _twice_  – and them most of the tension disappeared, leaving only his growing vulnerability.

“My car could cover for a new ventilator.” He whispered, carefully looking around him, as if such thoughts had been a recurring occurrence. “The stereo on the living room – a few rounds of intravenous antibiotics. That jacket there – enough sterile compresses to pack a few until they reach surgery.” Jamie’s eyes searched hers, a despair so great it made her queasy. “How can I ken such things and go on living as I must?”

“Your life didn’t cost them their own.” Claire tentatively reached for him, touching his forearm, where veins and tendons were visible under his skin. “It’s war, Jamie. It’s  _senseless_. You aren’t killing them by allowing yourself a reprieve, or some small joy. You are not the butterfly causing the tornado on the other side of the world.”

“I want to touch ye.” Jamie admitted, his voice unhinged. “But I feel so guilty, Claire. Every ounce of happiness seems like a crime committed against those I left there. Like I’ve started to forget them, just so I can live in peace.”

Claire came around him, speechless, and hugged him from behind, her palms making sure his heart had truly come home inside his chest. They stayed there, swaying gently together – Jamie like an overbeaten tree crying to the skies and Claire his embracing wind, holding his branches in her soft breeze, her will the roots to keep him grounded.

But none of those pieces he reluctantly shed could compare to the one they came upon, one brisk afternoon, looking at a few pictures on his phone. Jamie had been sharing with her images from a couple of surgeries he did overseas, names whispered with devotion and respect, when the screen suddenly showed a different reality.

It was an innocent picture by all standards. He was still more of the man she remembered, with a kind of soft glow that always made her think of sunny days; the woman next to him was a brunette with gentle eyes, her face made prettier by the absolute kindliness that exuded from her smile. It reminded Claire of those sapient animals inhabiting ancient forests. His arm was loosely around her shoulders and they were smiling to the camera.

“Who is she?” Claire asked calmly. Inside her a sense of profound direness grew, but she couldn’t afford to break just yet.  _Without truly knowing_. “She is quite beautiful.”

“ _Mary_.” Jamie pronounced softly. Her name on his lips didn’t sound like an entire world, as Claire’s often did when he chose to address her so; it didn’t appear like a star he had just discovered and secretly named just for himself. Still, his quiet hesitancy gave her pause. “She is a nurse, went there with the  _Doctors Without Borders_  for a full year. She is a remarkable lass.”

Claire swallowed hard – saliva, bile, unshed tears. Her index finger nervously rubbed his knuckle. “Tell me about her?”

“Aye.” He nodded, closing his eyes. “I think I have to. We got along verra well, especially after we were both stationed in R _aqqa_. Mary was the only person I felt like I could talk to during those days. We leaned on each other.”

“Did you -  _sleep_  with her?” Claire asked flatly. She felt very distant from her own body, as if her lips were being maneuvered by a ventriloquist. A very  _masochist one_.  

“No.” His eyes bore into hers, so she could take whatever she wanted from them. “But she did kiss me, Claire – and  _I let her._ ”

It wasn’t the wave of anger she had expected. Claire didn’t think of slapping him, screaming, scratching his face or even getting up and leave. She simply sat there, feeling like a vacant space,  _void_.  _Robbed_.

“Why?” She muttered. Her hands felt very empty and she suddenly craved the feel of a retractor and vascular clamp in her hands. “Were –  _are you_  in love with her?”

“ _No_.” Jamie brushed his slender face, sounding thoroughly broken. Claire didn’t dare to look for moistness on his cheeks. “It wasna  _like that._  It had been a very hard week for us, the city was getting hit almost hourly. We were losing patients even before we had time to triage them. I didna even ken the names of the people I was treating – there was no time for gentleness or to feel  _anything_ , really. Just  _loss_.” He stopped, covering his eyes with his palms. “With Mary I wanted to feel –  _kind_. I wanted to feel kindness and be sure I still could. That I hadn’t died without even noticing it.”

“ _Sometimes a kiss is just a kiss and sometimes a kiss is a tether to life_.” Claire whispered, fidgeting with her fingers. Her eyes remained stubbornly dry. Everything felt dry, _barren_ ,  _desolated_. “You told me that, once.  _Mary was your tether_.”

_Not me._

“I wanted to tell ye.” He promised in a hoarse voice. “But how can I tell you these things and expect ye to believe that I’ve never loved anyone but ye? How can I show ye how broken I am and beg ye to still want me?”

“Is that the reason why you can’t look at me when you touch me? Or why you stopped calling me?” Claire asked with urgency, raising from the couch and pacing around the room. “Because you were  _ashamed_?” She looked outside, to the fog covering Edinburgh like a cloak of cold quietness. It might have reached her heart. “I thought you were  _dead_!” Her voice broke just a little on that final word.

“Communications didn’t work most of the time.” Jamie assured her, pressing his hands together. “And when they eventually did – well, I thought it for the best that ye might presume me dead. I thought I might never come back, to expose ye to this wrecked thing I’ve become.” His breathing came out in a rasp. “I am sorry, Claire.  _For everything_.”

“Rationally, I can understand everything you are saying.” Claire murmured, crossing her arms against the sight of him. “But I can’t be here right now. I need to  _leave_.”

“Do as ye must.” Jamie looked at her with hooded eyes. Encouraging her to go, away away  _away_ from him.

“I need to know one last thing.  _Please_ , Jamie, give me your honesty in this.” She grabbed her bag and walked towards the door of his house. “Would you have  _forgotten me_  in time?” Claire asked, her tone no more than a whisper in the growing shadows between them.

Her hand was pressed against the doorknob until the metal almost marked her soft skin, erasing the lines of her palm.

“That amount of time  _doesna exist_.” Jamie answered, tears moistening his eyelashes, before she closed the door behind her.


	4. Sin-Eater

##  **_Part IV – Sin-Eater_ **

**_5 years ago_ **

Jamie half-opened the door, curious about the voice softly humming inside the locker room. His heart tap-danced on the space between his lungs, inviting them to breathe joy along with the unsteady rhythm.

In the last few weeks he had noticed a reluctance about her anytime he was near, as if he had turned contagious and she feared to be mortally infected. It was a cautiousness of touches and glances, more than open animosity. He had spent countless nights wondering what might have caused such a rift between them and, more importantly, how to correct it.

Because when the light coming from the window of the locker room hit her face, carefree and relaxed singing along a song only she could hear, James Fraser knew he would love Claire Beauchamp until asystole. He didn’t know the cause of his death yet, but he already knew who would be on his mind.  He was sure she would be able to make him smile, even then.

The small earring in her helix, bearing a white stone, glinted in the sun and Jamie craved to place his mouth on top of it, kissing her there, on the edge of cartilage and woman. If he opened the door completely he feared he would become irrevocably inebriated – her creamy skin underneath the blue scrubs, her soft voice, her quick sharpness - a state made torturous by the need to disguise it.

“Beauchamp.” Jamie eventually called out, his voice sounding strangely normal in the warm room. He strolled inside, closing the door behind him. “Did the surgery went well, then?”

“Ah,  _Fraser_.” Claire looked at him with raised brows, slightly suspicious, as if defying him to admit he had been spying on her. “It went very well. Mister Raymond will make a full recovery.”

“I’m glad.” Jamie rolled his shoulders casually, leaning against the locker next to hers. Her proximity made him tense sometimes, his body always on the verge of engaging – on fight, love,  _storms between them_. “Ye ken what they say about the man, aye? The nurses and such?”

“I’m not as  _familiar_  with the nurses as you, Fraser.” The female surgeon replied pointedly, neatly folding her surgical cap. “He is a patient needing my help and that is enough for me.”

“Ach.” Jamie hawked in his Scottish boom. “They say he is a  _sin-eater_. A verra powerful one at that.”

“A sin-eater?” Claire wrinkled her forehead in confusion. Jamie longed to brush those lines away with the tip of his fingers, maybe attempt at drawing them with sharpened pencil, immersed in the shadows of a bedroom.

“Aye.” He nodded sheepishly, offering her a lopsided smile. “A sin-eater is capable of devouring sins, absolving the soul of another. They carry them from that point on, so the person can be free and find redemption.”

“Scottish lore, is it?” Claire snorted, amused at this naiveté, quickly checking her phone for new messages before placing it in her bag.

“Nah.” Jamie shook his head, distractedly playing with the bell of his stethoscope. “He isna Scottish. But I find it quite interesting, anyway.”

“Yes.” She smiled softly, her eyes the colour of slightly burnt butterscotch, sweet with just enough bitterness to make it rich. “But isn’t that the role of the people who love us the most? Sharing our sins, helping us bear them, so that in time we can learn to live with them?” Claire shook her head almost imperceptibly, a faint – _sad_  - smile still on her lips. “Not that  _I_  would know anything about  _that_.” She patted his arm in goodbye –  _too rushed, too_   _fleeting_  - and strode towards the door. “Either way, Mister Raymond is on a liquid diet at the moment, so I wouldn’t go on a killing spree if I were you. No eating for him until his bowel decides to move again.”

**_Present time_ **

Claire knocked on the door, trying to ignore the little whisper of the key of his apartment inside her small bag. The door between them had closed, in more ways than one, and using the key was a step she wasn’t prepared to take.

Silence.  _Stillness_.

She practically banged the second time around, hearing a small rustle inside the apartment that indicated that either Jamie or Adso were present and accounted for. As the lock was slowly opening – with enough hasps for it to look like the gate of a prison – Claire had to admit that, given the necessity of thumbs for such a task, probably the human inhabitant was somewhere to be found beyond the door.

Jamie’s appearance hadn’t changed much in the week that separated them from their last meeting, when he had confessed the real depth of his brokenness. If anything, he looked very much unkept and battered, his short hair unpleasantly perspired, his shirt wrinkled to a point where it would have discouraged even the fiercest iron.

“ _Claire_. Ye’re here.” He said with surprise at the sight of her, his blue red-rimmed eyes dilating like the pupils of a cat in the dark. His speech was a tad slurred, rolling the syllables with a gusto that couldn’t entirely be attributed to his proud Scottishness. He smelled of stale sweat, something salty like algae exposed on the low tide and spilled whiskey.  _Stinking drunk_ , indeed.

“So it seems,  _Fraser_.” Claire replied dryly, raising her brows.  _Fraser_  was safe, whereas _Jamie_  was not.  _Jamie_ was a name that meant something else, visible only when her barriers were down, when their breathings synched in the dead of night and the world seemed to sigh along.

Adso appeared at the door, peeking from behind Jamie’s significantly skinnier legs, with big pleading orbs. Claire could have sworn he was about to smack his owner’s calves and roll his eyes in protest for being abandoned to deal with such a reprehensive human being.

“I tried to call first.” She hesitantly strode inside the apartment, after Jamie had signalled for her to enter. “But you didn’t pick up your phone and your house number seems to be disconnected.” Her observant eyes noticed several broken pieces of furniture and pottery, shards like lines of ants travelling on the floor, and the landline had been ripped from the plug – from the hole on the wall, she would say it had been quite a violent affair. Claire conjectured if Jamie simply felt more at ease amidst chaos in those days. _Familiar_. “ _Redecorating_ are you?” She joked, carefully pushing aside some wreckage with the tip of her foot.

“Something like it. Went minimalist.” Jamie replied faintly. He was watching her intently, as if expecting her to vanish in the next few seconds. There were at least four empty beer bottles in the coffee table and probably other testaments of liquor nestling in the garbage bin. Sobriety was a state in which ghosts tended to dwell.

“I’m not here as your – your  _lover_.” She said the word harshly, with fresh resentment prickling her tongue. “I’m here as a friend - and as your  _Chief_.” Claire pursed her full lips, fixing a point slightly above his right shoulder, that would give a satisfactory impression of looking straight at him. “Besides, I was worried about Adso.”

“I take good care of the wee cheetie.” Jamie protested, although the assertion of his capacities for pet-parenting wasn’t particularly enhanced by the fact that he could barely stand up straight without stumbling.

“Well, he bathes  _himself_ at least.” Claire retorted, crossing her arms. “Your vacation time ends the day after tomorrow. If you want to step inside my surgical department again, I’m advising that you seek therapy.” She inhaled sharply. “ _Mandatory therapy_ , to be more accurate.”

“I dinna need  _therapy_.” Jamie glared at her, his eyelids partially closed, wakefulness weighing heavily on him. She could sense the pull of him, like a magnet or a black hole, pulling her to a place with no gravity,  _no rules_. “I just need –“

“ _Don’t_.” Claire hissed, raising a warning finger. She knew what he was about to say, as if he had drummed it with his fingers, his tongue,  _his blood_ , deep into her eardrum.  _You_.  _I just need you_. “You need to heal yourself, so I can be properly angry at you. You need to  _come back_  while you still can.”

“I dinna have a map, Claire.” He whispered drunkenly, although the words resonated as honest between them. A man lost between the debris of his old life; trying to navigate backwards against the roaring surge that stubbornly propelled him towards the abyss.  

“Fortunately for you, I have an excellent sense of direction – and therapy is the way forward.” Claire assured, more softly than she intended. “You need to take a shower while I pack you a bag and accommodate Adso to go as well. You’ll both stay at my place for some time.”

“Yer place?” Jamie furrowed his brow, his face the colour of overnight oats. “I canna. It’s no’ fair to ye.”

“I’m not inviting you to  _my bed_.” Claire explained haltingly, grabbing a couple of bottles to carry to the trash. “Things between us  _have_  changed. You’ll stay in the guest room. Besides, I have to save the entire city of Edinburgh – we’re in danger of an alcohol drought very soon, if you keep this up.”

“Why are ye doing this? Ye should be far away from me.” The male surgeon leaned against the wall, incapable of remaining firmly grounded on the floor without an aid. “I betrayed ye. Betrayed yer  _trust_. My weakness –  _disgusts_ me.” If Jamie could crawl out of his skin, Claire unquestionably believed he would in that moment. He would march around,  _skinless_ , exhibiting the frail thing within.

“You hurt me –  _yes_.” Her voice quivered, as she scooped Adso to place him in the carrier. Her back was blissfully turned away from Jamie, so he couldn’t see her face. Like boiling water, parting and swelling with emotion, so close to becoming mist only to pour down again. “I won’t pretend that I fully understand what you went through and how you bonded with people who shared the same journey. This is not  _forgiveness_.” She breathed deeply, air hitching inside her airway. “But I meant what I’ve told you, that last night together before you were gone. I might have told it only once; but for me it was the same as if I’ve said it forever. And that makes me responsible in seeing you safe.”

_I love you._

“I  _have_ broken yer heart.” Jamie whispered, his head tilted back. “And I dinna know how to mend it, in spite of what I promised ye.”

“You can start by going into the shower.” Claire gulped, swallowing the tears that formed in the corners of her eyes, that left her so willing to open her heart and cradle him inside.

She busied herself around the living room and bedroom, discarding garbage and collecting items he might need while he stayed with her, overhearing the distant noise of the shower running. Claire stubbornly closed the eye of her mind against the vision of his body, former or present. It had been a vessel to come together –  _tenderly, playfully, lovingly, entirely_  - but now was just another vehicle for Jamie to punish himself.

A loud racket coming from the bathroom caused her to run to the door like an arrow, ignoring Adso who meowed in outrage from his closed carrier.  

In his altered state Jamie had lost his balance while trying to reach the towel and - amidst a rainfall of soap, shampoo bottles and foamy water – had fallen against the tiled floor, cutting his bottom lip which bled profusely.  

“ _Fuck_.” Claire swore, kneeling next to him on the floor. She expediently examined his pupils and searched his scalp for any further damages.

“Couldna have said it better myself.” Jamie stammered, looking dazed. His lip was swelling visibly.

Within moments, Claire had managed to prop Jamie up into a sited position against the sink, scavenging the first aid kit to tend to his mouth. She had preserved both of their modesties by placing a towel on his lap, but their eyes were still disturbingly close as she worked. With a fluffy clean towel, Claire dabbed the open wound, trying to ignore his bottomless blue eyes, exuding love and pain enough to make her hands tremble.

“ _How many times_?” Claire asked eventually, applying disinfectant on the wound. He hissed in discomfort and she touched his forehead in gentleness. “How many times did you kiss her?”

“Just the once.” Jamie looked at the ceiling. Claire bit her bottom lip, applying steri-strips to the wound – there wasn’t a suture kit around, so it would have to do.

“Why did you keep the photo?” Her fingertips brushed the side of his cheek. “ _Of Mary_?”

“I have a tenderness for her.” He answered slowly, searching her eyes. “Mary really was a good friend. But I kept it in case ye wanted to see it – I think that most times imagining something is worse than truly knowing, aye? I kept it so ye wouldna have to imagine.”

“I see.” Claire glanced at him under her lashes. “You told me you thought of never coming back.  _Why_ did you?”

“I’m  _selfish_ , Claire. I’m not brave enough not to see ye again. To touch ye, to kiss ye.” Jamie whispered, tasting his admission and his own blood. “I’m not brave enough not to  _want ye._  And I’ve brought home hell for it.”


	5. Tell It To The Moon

##  **_Part V – Tell It To The Moon_ **

“Did you sleep well, Fraser?” Claire asked causally, as Jamie entered her kitchen, barefooted but respectfully wearing a large t-shirt and loose sweat pants. She knew painfully well that he preferred to sleep – and sometimes walk around the house – only in his underwear or even naked.

He shrugged without saying a word and patted Adso, who was nagging Claire in order to conquer an early breakfast, since both the night and his appetite had been extensive.  Throughout the dark hours, Claire had heard Jamie trashing in the bedroom adjacent to her own, the spring mattress being on the overused and whinny side, so the question had been fundamentally rhetorical.

“Did ye make coffee already?” He asked in a very hoarse voice, as if his vocal cords weren’t entirely aware of his wakefulness.  

“Yes.” Claire smiled smugly, presenting him with a huge glass, filled to the brim with a green and viscous liquid. “And you can have a bucket,  _as soon as_  you finish your smoothie.” Jamie stared blankly at the glass and winced.

Jamie still maintained a stubborn avoidance of a proper diet, jumping meals and filling his plate with a portion that would be no more than an appetizer to Adso. Ignoring his vehement protests with a squint that was pure steel, Claire had started to concoct a smoothie for his breakfast that consisted of several fruits, vegetables, seeds and a pinch of protein powder. The potion – varying between grassy green, muddy burgundy and radioactive yellow – carried her high hopes for him to regain some weight and avoid an anaemia from vitamin deficits.

“Tastes like heather.” Jamie scowled above the rim of the glass. He peeked at the kitchen counter, trying to decipher the ingredients she had used in such a despicable recipe.

“Works for the sheep.” Claire pointed optimistically. “All fat and energetic.”

“Are ye herding me then?” He raised his brows, almost smiling.  _Almost_.

“Oh, pinch your nose if you must!” She tried to hide an amused grin, watching the look of profound aversion he directed to the liquid. “ _Or_  you can go to therapy without coffee. How was it yesterday, by the way?”

The previous day Jamie had gone to his third appointment with a therapist specialized in post-traumatic stress disorder, who had been enthusiastically recommended to her after a few discreet inquiries at the hospital. He had arrived home late, when she was already snuggling in bed with a book, pretending not to keep a diligent watch on his movements. The glimpse she had caught of his face as he entered his impromptu accommodations had scared her – he looked a generous inch beyond devastation.

“I’d verra much like not to speak at all, to be honest.” Jamie gulped half of the glass’ content, clicking his tongue in distaste. “Everything feels –  _heightened_ , after each session.  _Raw_ , as if every wound I’ve ever made would maybe bleed again.”

“That’s good.” Claire patiently munched on her slightly burnt toast, trying not to look too eager.  _Too hopeful_.  _Too invested_. “Bleeding is always better than scar tissue, that leads nowhere in healing properly.” It was the practicality of a surgeon, but accurate when applied to wounds or spirits.

After finishing his juice, while Claire studied some forms from the hospital with small notes written on the margin –  _budgets, OR schedules, the rotation of the new residents, complaints from a few disgruntled patients who would prefer a softer bed or a smaller suture_  -, Jamie filled a mug with dark simple coffee and sat again examining his fingers. She waited for him to say whatever he had been preparing so nervously, playing with her pen as if the growing number of appendicectomies constituted a complex conundrum.

“The therapist suggested that I told ye stories about –  _there_.” Jamie finally said, his voice low. His eyes were fixing Adso, masterfully licking the bottom of his plate with his pinkish tongue. “A bit each day, he said.”

“And do you want to?” Claire entwined her hands on top of the table, her whole body indicating full attention, her eyes gentle but direct.

“I want ye to know.” He sighed, scratching the stubble that had not been shaved for several days. Hygiene wasn’t optional under Claire’s roof – she had threatened to clean his ears with the toilet brush if he didn’t comply -, but she had conceded on the overgrown beard. “And I dinna want to feel so  _numb_. A man permanently underwater. If I tell ye these things maybe the present will start feeling more real.”

“Alright.” She nodded softly, brushing away a tenacious curl. Claire tried not to look too expectant.

Jamie remained silent for a time; if the pain of such memories made him unable to talk for a moment, or if he was trying to decide where to start, Claire wasn’t entirely sure. “Ye were their favourite story.”

“What?” She asked, puzzled. He raised his eyes to her and smiled, shy but decided. There was something undefinable about his face, as if he had just come to the surface after prolonged immersion, experiencing the blessing of cold air in his lungs all over again.

“The Syrian doctors and nurses I worked with. When we had a moment of respite, I used to tell them about ye –  _our story_.” His lips twitched on a lopsided smirk. “I told them about this extraordinary lass who hated my guts and how lucky I was when she changed her mind. Some of them barely had any English, but somehow, they all understood.  Love was common ground, aye?” Jamie licked his lips, slightly shrugging. “I showed them photos of ye –  _not all of them_ , of course.” There was a faint tinge of pink on his cheeks. “Some were just for me.”

“That’s –“ Claire hawked, trying with all her resolve to disperse the knot inside her throat. She couldn’t allow herself to break everytime he was strong enough to share something with her. “ _Thank you_  for telling me.”

Jamie nodded and grabbed the jacket he had left dangling from the back of a chair. “I remembered ye.” He whispered softly, his fingers playing with the buttons. “I remembered ye  _always_.”

***

It had been an unusually long day, with multiple surgeries pilling in sequence, until Claire couldn’t even remember the exact name linked to the flesh she was cutting. It was a day built on flashes of sterile gloves, her commanding voice asking for “ _scissors_ ” and “ _suction_ ”, rounds of antibiotics quickly prescribed in recovery, the blue of scrubs and surgical fields so intense it all seemed like an endless sea. Thankfully, it had also been a day of hopeful and relieved smiles on the waiting room, when she opened the door to give away encouraging news.

Exhausted, she had arrived home and collapsed on the bed for a short nap before dinner; awaking with a startled gasp well past midnight, fully clothed and sweaty. The explanation for the rough awakening became evident as soon as the buzzing inside her ears diluted – she could hear the heart-wrenching wails and sobs on the room next door.

Feeling that the situation went far beyond his recurring nightmares, she slowly walked to Jamie’s bedroom. The closed door seemed like a warning not to trespass on his stoic suffering, but Claire blatantly ignored it.  _His need for her_ surpassed all the rest.

He was laying on his side, his firmly closed eyelids indicating he was fast asleep. There were traces of tears on his face, glistening on the scarce light flooding the room, like cobwebs made of silver. Jamie was naked, save from the crumpled sheet around his waist, and beads of sweat coated his body like little open mouths ready to cry out. The room smelt of terror and sandalwood, like the den of an injured animal.

Claire sat on the edge of the bed, covering her mouth when he moaned and sobbed again in his sleep. “ _Fraser_.” She attempted, gently touching the side of his face. His skin was very warm and sticky to the touch. “ _Jamie_.” Claire insisted in a firmer voice, her hand travelling to his forehead. No fever, but his body was certainly struggling. “ _Scalpel!_ ”. She called out, gripping his face with both of her palms. He trashed against her touch, trying to escape it, but she applied more pressure of her body against his, willing her palms to become a safe haven for him. “It’s  _alright_. You’re home.  _I’m here_.”

He widened his eyes, coming out of sleep with a jump, his breathing laboured. For a moment, Claire thought he didn’t recognize her, her face blurring into a million different ones, features of loss and guilt he couldn’t allow himself to forget.

“Claire.” He croaked, his trembling hands covering hers.

“It’s me.” She asserted, her index finger tenderly tracing his brow. “You were dreaming.” He nodded and gulped, adjusting the moist sheet around him to better cover himself, as he realized she was indeed very real and palpable. “Get dressed and come with me.”

Claire slightly turned her back to allow him some privacy as he fumbled with his pyjama pants, the concept of not openly sharing their bodies still foreign and unnatural. When he hawked, indicating he was suitably covered, she nodded and waved for him to follow her.

As Jamie stood on the cold floor of the living room, looking lost and misplaced, Claire went into her closet and came back armed with a large grey sleeping bag. She opened the doors to the wide balcony, the full moon smiling on the starry sky like an open eye, witnessing everything at a safe distance.

“I read that adjusting to their previous life can be tasking to people who were in conflict zones.” She explained naturally, as she prepared what seemed like a camping bed outside, amidst the vases of her balcony. “It might help to find references that were similar between both places, so it doesn’t seem like a sudden change.”

“I dinna understand –“ Jamie started, furrowing his brow in puzzlement.

“The moon and the stars are the same, are they not?” Claire smiled a little, tilting her chin to indicate the sky outside. “I don’t think there’s much else in common between my house and a hospital in Syria, but that might work.”

“Aye.” He agreed, his voice husky. “I used to look at the sky at night and think it was almost strange, to have something sae beautiful, still there, amidst such a place.”

“Get comfortable then.” She encouraged him, pointing to the bed she had composed with feathery pillows from the sofa and a patterned quilt. “The weather is quite nice, so you should be alright.”

“Will ye stay?” Jamie asked hurriedly, words coming forcibly out of his mouth, like bullets that might wound him if contained. “I won’t  _touch ye_ , I promise. I just –  _dinna want to be alone_  tonight.”

“Fine.” Claire said cheerfully, as if the thought of being in close proximity with his vulnerability didn’t give her any pause. “Scoot over and try not to snore,  _bloody Scot_.”

They laid on their backs, avoiding to touch each other even in passing, Claire cosily lulled by Jamie’s steadier breathing. Adso appeared on the balcony and sniffed her hair, questioning the motives for such odd behaviour, and came to happily nestle between their legs.

“The therapist says I have a bad case of survivor’s guilt.” He said softly. She didn’t turn her head to look at him, tracing constellations with invisible fingertips; she might kiss him if she did. “I can’t forgive myself and did my best for ye not to forgive me either. Did my best to destruct everything I had.”

“Did you?” Claire asked to the stars. “ _Do your best_?”

“Aye.” He whispered somewhere, achingly close to her ear.

“Your best is not  _that good_ , then. Because I’m still  _here_ – thoroughly  _pissed_ , but laying on my back in my own balcony just to be beside you, Fraser.”

“I dinna deserve ye.” Jamie said in a rumble. Claire’s fingers lightly caressed the back of his hand.

“Regardless of where we end up,” She whispered back. “That is for me – and  _only me_  – to decide. Strop trying to convince me.”

He talked then, in a voice that was no more than a caress to the moon. Stray words and fragmented sentences, mostly in _Gaelic_ ; confessions the absence of light made less frightening, elusive, shooting up to the sky like firecrackers. And Claire saw the man remaining, illuminated by those painful admissions, and felt nothing but love.


	6. Moment of Tangency

##  **_Part VI – Moment of Tangency_ **

Time and wounds - there is an indelible relationship between them. When a significant amount of time has passed over an open wound, it becomes unsafe to close it with a suture, the risk of infection being too great. The only benign option remaining is to leave to the body the arduous task of bridging the gap by itself, closing by secondary intention. A wound touched by time in such a manner will never truly heal; instead it blossoms with scar tissue that might fade, but never truly disappears.  _“I was here”_ , time will tell through the skin, “ _And you won’t forget it.”_  Time doesn’t actually _heal_  all wounds - but it might grant us functional scars.

Jamie had scars aplenty, figurative and literal, that he cautiously shared with Claire over the next few weeks. Sometimes words streamed out of him, as if he couldn’t wait to be purged of such afflictions; other times, it was no more than a look filled with renewed pain, a hand searching for hers in the confessional of darkness.

The man that now bore Jamie’s striking blue eyes and attractive face was much quieter than he used to be. Silence surrounded him, like an unbreachable armour, oppressing in its nature. Claire yearned to fill in that silence with words that could reach him, but usually allowed him to dictate the rhythm of their conversations.

“Hey.” Claire greeted from the sofa, where she had installed herself for a  _lazy-Friday-off-work_ , shifting her attention from the television to a newly-arrived Jamie, whose face was stuck in a grimace. Although still distant from his usual healthy figure, he had managed to regain a couple of pounds under Claire’s unwavering efforts. “You look like something Adso dragged in. What’s the matter, Fraser?”

“Headache.” Jamie whispered, as if the mere act of talking was excruciating. “My head hurts like a fiend.”

“Oh.” She looked at him with concern swirling in her whiskey-coloured eyes. “Did you take something for the pain?”

“Some Ibuprofen, but didna help much.” He sighed and slumped on the couch next to her, missing her propped up feet by mere inches. “Do ye have something stronger around?”

“Probably.” Claire said haltingly, studying his face intently. “But I’m not sure you should be doing strong painkillers.” Her eyes softened, as she tried to gently convey her concerns, without making veiled insinuations. “Given everything you went through, you are at risk for addictive behavior.” As doctors, they were both painfully aware that people experiencing post-traumatic stress disorder were fairly vulnerable to destructive relationships with alcohol and drugs, amongst other vices. Jamie had already been on the verge, unreservedly plunging on a glass of liquid forgetfulness, when Claire came to him at his apartment.

“Aye.” Jamie avoided her gaze, suddenly seeming to be absorbed by the interior design extravaganza playing on the telly. Claire knew it was hard for him to be permanently under a microscope, his every action studied for possible future ripples. “Ye’re right, of course.”

“There are other ways to help with the pain, though.” The female surgeon proposed cheerfully, trying to break the tense moment. “More  _natural_  ways.”

Claire opened her mouth to correct herself, blatantly realizing how that  _particular remark_  had sounded, but a faint shade of pink had already appeared on the tips of Jamie’s ears. Looking simultaneously scandalized and interested, his eyes travelled from her face to her breasts – modestly covered by her somewhat unflattering sweater,  _thankfully_  - in quick succession.

“Not  _that_!” Claire protested, although she was acutely aware of the heat of his body, so close to her on the confines of the sofa. “I meant  _exercise_! We should go for a hike.”

“Alright.” There was a hint of amused disappointment in Jamie’s smirk. “ _Ye_ suggesting a workout, lass.” Jamie shook his head in feigned disbelief, grimacing when the pain intensified with the movement. “Lead the way, Beauchamp’s doppelgänger.”

Claire snorted with mirth, throwing him a cautionary look. “Maybe that’s why you have that headache – all that  _wit_ trying to come out at once, Fraser.”

***

The air was crisp on the summit of  _Arthur’s Seat_ , with teeth enough to prickle the skin, like a fervent kiss from a windy open mouth. Jamie and Claire had crossed half the city well into  _Holyrood Park,_  in a pace that was a short step away from running, and then rapidly started the ascension. On their way over to the top, they had passed and greeted a couple of hikers already starting the descend and were pleasantly surprised when they discovered themselves all alone. The surgeons sat in companionable silence, catching their breaths as their eyes drank thirstily from the beautiful shades of red and orange over Edinburgh.

Claire looked at Jamie from the corner of her eyes and was thoroughly satisfied by the beautiful shade of pink on his cheeks, his headache entirely forgotten after his body had been properly exhausted into submission. It was a moment of peace for him – those were still fairly rare and  _precious_  –, so Claire was content with just watching him  _be_. For a moment, she dreamily thought of leaning her head against his shoulder and falling asleep with the city at their feet; her entire body curled against his skin, coming alive with sweat.

She was deeply attuned with Jamie’s dispositions after weeks of dutifully watching over him, so Claire immediately noticed when the air hitched inside his throat.

“What’s the matter?” Her voice sounded weird to her own ears, as if it didn’t belong so close to the clouds, too heavy to be on top of a hill.

“I had a glimpse, just now.  _A moment of tangency_.” He shook his head, thoughts like stubborn grains of sand he could shake away from his mind. Jamie’s lips curled in a sorrowful smile. “Of what life could have been – if I had stayed.”

“Oh.” Claire babbled in questioning tone, offering just enough careful incentive to hopefully keep him talking.

“We’d come here often, whenever our schedules at the hospital allowed us. I’d drag ye and ye’d pretend to come unwillingly.” He breathed deeply, experiencing the air as if it might have turned into poison in between his words. “Maybe I’d  _touch ye_ , if we were alone - if I was feeling particularly reckless and you being willing. All those bonnie noises ye’d make for me, scattered over Edinburgh.” His eyes were dark, gone into a place where the light wasn’t able to touch them. “This might have been the place where we make the decision of moving in together – where I’d ask ye to marry me.”

“I’m not really the marrying type.” Claire pointed with alacrity, determined to hold on to the edges of her shields, so close to come crumbling down under the force of the battering ram of his words. She could see it too, that beautiful  _“what if_ ”, painted in the sky above them like a watercolour.

“Ach,  _well_.” He clicked his tongue, as if she was entirely missing the point – she  _tenaciously was_. “But it was a  _possibility_ , _then_.”

“You talk as if you are hopeless of ever being that man again.” Claire brushed her hair to the side to better look at his face, curls flogging the back of her neck like a whip. “As if you are mourning yourself.”

“I might build a life for myself in time.” Jamie hesitated, as if the words might materialize and break in front of his eyes, blinding him with the shards. “But I’ll never be the man I once was. A bit  _more_ , and a  _whole lot less_ , but never again the same. When I was a lad, I had atrocious growing pains – being so tall and all.” He shrugged, as if apologizing for his outrageous height. “It’s like experiencing all that pain compressed in a single second,  _every day_. Ye learn to live with it, but it costs ye. Sometimes, it seems to cost ye everything ye ever had.”

There was not much Claire could say - to contradict him would be telling a blatant lie; to accept the reality in his words would be to accept that he harboured a pain she could not heal.  _In silence, like in moments of tangency, everything was again possible._

“Did she know?” Claire cleared her throat after a while, when it became clear he was starting to retreat into himself again. He did not seek it,  _the distance_  – it came for him, uninvited, like a howl in the woods. “Did she –  _Mary_  – know about me?”

The topic had been carefully avoided by the both of them for the past few weeks. The nurse working for the  _Doctors Without Borders_  mission was the hole that threatened to break the dam so shakily constructed, which allowed them to co-exist in a resemblance of harmony. But Claire felt  _it was time_ ; her anger might start to fester, opening a hideous wound that would bleed between them.

“Aye.  _She knew_.” Jamie confirmed, absentmindedly playing with the thin steam of nearby wild flower. “Afterwards, she wouldna stop apologizing. Begged me to let her write to ye, to explain things and make ye understand.” He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he could still see the regret in Mary’s eyes in front of him, reflecting his own. “I told her that I would handle things.”

“And by _handle_  I assume you really meant  _push me away_.” Claire said harshly, her lips pursing.

“Mary had just ended a verra bad marriage. Her husband was an uncaring man, as quick with his temper as with his words. Mary finally filed for divorce, just shortly before she went to Syria. The scoundrel waited for her, outside the hospital where she used to work, and beat her senseless for it.” Jamie’s troubled eyes searched for hers. “Mary didna  _want me_ , the same as I  _didna want her_. But she was afraid to die and didna want to leave this world with only the memory of violence upon her.”  He sharply inhaled the brisk air. “It  _doesna_ justify what happened, but  _connection_  was all she sought from me.  _Humanity_  was all I sought from her.”

“You truly think this is just about  _the kiss_?” Claire snorted humourlessly, shaking her head. Her temper was starting to rise, along with the wind around them. “Yes, I felt betrayed and my pride and self-esteem took a serious hit. But that alone didn’t break my heart.” Her chin quivered a little, her eyes seemingly hypnotized by Jamie’s. “What truly hurt me is that you didn’t trust me to  _love you enough_.”

“ _Claire_.” Jamie’s faltering voice was almost a plea. “I didna want ye to feel obligated to stay with me, when I knew the man ye loved wouldna be coming back.”

“ _Yes_ , I’m sure there were plenty of noble and self-sacrificing notions on your part.” Claire bit the inside of her cheek, watching the leaves swirling around, powerless against the air that moved them. “But can you honestly tell me you didn’t think I couldn’t handle it? That I would get cold feet and run for the hills at the first sign of trouble?”

“Ye gave yerself over to me slowly.” He whispered back, slightly tilting his head. “I knew being part of a couple didna come easily to ye. I cherished whatever ye gave me, but still there was a part of ye that ye kept to yerself.  _Tentative. Guarded_.”

“But _I did_ give myself over  _to you_.” Claire’s lips felt numb – it might be the cold creeping in, or the ice that filled her veins. “Even overwhelming fear couldn’t stop me. I gave you as much as I had to give. And I wasn’t in it just to _take_ strength from you - solely to take away whatever _I_  needed.”

“I thought –“ Jamie started, but Claire raised a hand, her palm stretched in his direction to silence his protests.

“You pushed me away –  _removed_ yourself from my life, for as long as you could – to protect yourself from the off chance that I would  _choose_  to leave.” Her chest felt constricted, as if everything was trying to come out, crawling through her circulation to the surface at once. “Let it be my choice –  _my choice_ , damn you!”

There was moistness on her cheeks, but Claire didn’t bother wiping it away. Jamie’s eyes were filled with tears, a waveless sea bursting with new currents.

“I should ha’known how brave ye truly are.” Jamie said in a husky voice. “I shouldn’t have doubted ye.”

“No.” She agreed. “You shouldn’t have. Not without me giving you  _a reason_  to. I might be  _fucked up_ , but I stand my ground. I know how to love properly.”

“I used to love ye as a man loves a woman.” He confessed slowly, touching her cheek with tentative fingertips. “Deeply, aye, but simply enough.” Jamie traced her temple, his thumb lightly stroking the centre of her forehead, as if in benediction. “But now I think I love ye as only a soul can love another soul. Ye are putting me back together and ye’re leaving something of yerself inside me.”

“You still have work to do.” Claire’s hand enfolded his, caressing the knotty knuckles of his hand. “Maybe for the rest of your life there will be nights when you have to sleep on the balcony. But maybe –  _maybe_  there is a way for  _us_ going forward. But there can be no fear  _between us_ , only  _around us_.”

Their shadowy figures were getting longer, announcing the coming of the night, when people were left alone to brave their way without a dark likeness of themselves. Soon enough the surgeons would have to make their way back home; but there was a fragile understanding in that place that was hard to abandon.

“In spite of every tragedy you witnessed – of  _everything_  that happened,” Claire gently asked him, when she found words again. “Have you found your purpose there? What you were looking for?”

“Aye.” Jamie looked tenderly at her and his eyes were limpid enough for her to see herself reflected there. “I believe I have.”


	7. Inked

##  **_Part VII – Inked_ **

Claire slowly opened her eyes, dreamily watching the suspended particles dancing in the golden light, streaming through the fabric of the curtains. Her legs felt heavy, muscles substituted by lead like a tin soldier. She had arrived terribly late from the hospital, only allowing herself to leave her desk after finishing half of the administrative work that was pending, a pile which seemed to relentlessly grow a couple of inches every day.

When she had silently entered the darkened house, Jamie was already asleep, curled under a blanket on the balcony. For a second Claire thought of laying beside him and watching him sleep; let herself be soothed by the peace he found in those moments, even if far away from her. But her body had begged her for the relief of a spacious bed and soft mattress, and she had caved in without much mental protest.

Yawning and stretching, the female surgeon raised from the bed feeling mildly dizzy with tiredness, reaching for her phone while distractedly scratching Adso’s furry – and slightly on the overweighted side - flank.

“ _Shit_.” She cursed between her teeth, after sleepily checking her messages. The day had just started and already plotted to give her a headache. With a final bump on the cat’s belly - foreshadowing a reduction on the daily rations of the gluttonous feline -, Claire left Adso to regally claim her bed and went to the bathroom.

After a quick shower – much quicker than what her body yelled it deserved -, Claire padded to the living room. Jamie was sitting on a chair close to the window, his forehead creased with concentration, as he meticulously drew with a small pencil.

Jamie’s therapist had suggested that drawing might be a useful outlet for the emotions he had tried so hard to repress; or for the things that haunted him, which he couldn’t effectively put into words. Claire had seen flashes of his sketches, unfinished faces of unfamiliar people and shapes of ruins, but he had never displayed them openly. Eventually, Jamie might reach a place where he would be comfortable in sharing them with her – Claire wasn’t sure if she was hopeful or fearful of that particular instance.

“Good mornin’”. Jamie offered her a soft smile, when he finally noticed her presence. “There’s omelette for breakfast in the stove, if you want some.”

“You made omelette?” Claire tried to sound casual, but her surprise was evident. Jamie looked unvulgarly well-rested and in good spirits that morning; he had shaved two days ago, hence his reddish scruff was short, smooth and actually  _quite charming_.

“Aye.” He shrugged, clearly not wanting her to fuss about his sudden appetite for complex food. “I woke up hungry. Skipped the smoothie today, though – hope that’s alright.”

“Sure.” She nodded, studying him carefully. The idea had occurred to her in the shower, seeming to have entered her ear whispered by a drop of water; it was probably too soon and undoubtedly risky, but perhaps worth trying. “Are you terribly busy today?”

“No.” His tongue peeked from the corner of his mouth, as he squinted over a particularly troublesome part of his portrayal. “Do ye need something, Beauchamp?”

“I do.” Claire carefully sat on the edge of the sofa closer to him, fidgeting with her hands in nervousness. “But not as Claire – as  _Chief_.”

Jamie immediately stopped the movements of his pencil, his cobalt-blue eyes locking with hers in confusion. “I’m on leave of absence –  _ye_  put me on leave  _yerself_. We both agreed I wasna fit to practice medicine for a time.”

“ _Yes_ – and I stand by that decision.” She bit her bottom lip, balancing the weight of her torso on her palms, flattened against her knees. “But I have a tumour the size of a cantaloupe to retrieve from a retroperitoneum. Louise was scheduled to scrub in with me, but Geillis texted me earlier to tell me she is sick.” Claire sniffed, divided between irritation and amusement. “Apparently Louise managed to escape chickenpox until the ripe age of thirty-two, so she is busy scratching herself at home.” She paused to inhale deeply, anticipating his reaction. “I’m using the  _Beauchamp Method_  and you’re the only other surgeon who knows the technique as well as I do.”

“Ye’re asking me to  _perform surgery_  with ye.” Jamie slowly repeated, his eyes darkening. “Claire, ye ken that’s  _not wise_. I havena even been inside the hospital in weeks, I canna just –“

“She’s twenty-years old, Jamie!” Claire protested passionately, opening her hands in exasperation. “Barely more than a child. The surgery has already been delayed for months, as she bounced between surgeons who told her it was inoperable. The window to save her is almost closing.”

“I dinna ken if I’m ready.” He swallowed hard, but in his eyes there was a small glint – a seed of resolution.  _A man called to arms._  “My presence might hinder ye more than help ye.”

“Are you willing to find out?” She pressed, the corner of her mouth twitching in an encouraging smile. “Because  _I am_.”

***

Walking with Jamie through the corridors of the hospital had been a harrowing experience. Nurses, doctors and orderlies glared at him with eyes the size of new planets - some seemingly trying to locate him on the shelves of their memories, as if the tome of his identity had been lost; others with the shock of recognition, that quickly turned into pity and discomfort. A few dared to throw him a cautious smile, and actually stopped to pat him on the back, stating that he had been missed. Claire had grown accustomed to his dramatic physical change, but seeing it again through the eyes of others had been enlightening in the most painful way.

“Missed this?” She asked him, as they started to scrub in together. Jamie had seen the CT scans and had donned the usual blue scrubs of the  _Royal Infirmary_. There was a dangerous swirl of memories about the body that hid underneath them – from  _before_  -, whispering too close to the surface. She couldn’t afford to lose herself to the embrace of such reveries.

“Feels good.” He smiled shyly, spreading the foamy soap on his forearms, almost reaching the elbows. “I reckon this is as much a ritual to find the appropriate mindset, as a way to prevent infection.” His eyes glanced to the inside of the operating theatre, where the anaesthetist was already working on the young patient. “I missed seeing ye here as well – where ye always looked the happiest.”

“I’m truly content here.” Claire admitted, activating the water tap. “But you’re wrong. I’ve been happier in  _other_  places.” She could feel Jamie’s stare, fixed between her shoulder blades, as she moved to enter the OR with her hands raised before her. As she was being gloved and gowned by the assisting nurse, Claire wondered if he would dare to ask her about those other happy places – and what would she say then?

_His bed. Her bed, but only when it smelled of him. The locker room floor, whenever he was sitting next to her. The rooftop, when he gave her his father’s pendant, to keep her anchored.  Every inch of floor where she had been pressed down by his body, the cold tiles kissing her skin along with his hot mouth._

She had been happy.  _He had made her happy_. Claire wished she had been able to tell him  _how much_ , then.

The first steps of the surgery went smoothly, Claire leading the way and Jamie assisting with simple motions –  _suction here_ ,  _retract there_. But as they approached the critical point of the surgery, the removal of the tumour itself and subsequent anastomosis attempt, Claire noticed how Jamie’s hands started to shake.

It wasn’t a blatant tremor, the kind that would elicit scandalized looks from the instrumentalist nurse or catch the eye of the resident accompanying them; but it was enough to unbalance him, to make him question himself, the finesse of his movements with the blade lost to the doubts of his mind.

“Jamie.” She called him in a soft whisper, her voice muffled by the surgical mask. “ _It’s alright_.”

“Ye should call another surgeon to assist ye, Doctor Beauchamp.” He flexed his glove-covered hand, his long fingers gripping the handle of the scalpel in his hand. Above the rim of his mask, the blue of his eyes seemed bottomless and much darker.

“ _No_.” Claire said, her voice sounding absolutely calm –  _controlled_. “You are  _here_. We  _both are_. You’ve got this, Fraser.”

“I canna seem to recall the next step in the procedure, Doctor Beauchamp.” Jamie stated softly, but his melodic voice dripped with a warning. His body was trying to shut down, to recoil into a safe place, away from the memories linked to the last time he had been holding a scalpel in his hands. In such a scenario, his memory might fail completely, and they were vulnerable to a mistake.

“Don’t think.” The female surgeon searched his eyes with hers, nodding in incentive. Their hands met briefly in the sterile field, a quick brush of fingertips, magnetized by the thrum of blood.  “Just move with me,  _Scalpel_.”

In a time when being lovers had seemed like an anecdote to her - and a thoroughly improbable dream to him -, still they had found an unparalleled synchrony of actions within the OR, a cadence that went beyond the necessity of words, as if their bodies already knew that they were meant to move together.

Such things weren’t easily forgotten.

***

“ _Doctor Fraser_.” Claire grinned when she entered the house, her hands occupied with a box of fragrant pizza, the scent of oregano, tomato and melted cheese drifting pleasantly along the hallway. “Brought a much-deserved dinner to our small victory party.”

The surgery had been, by all standards,  _a success_  – the tumour was removed with clear margins, and the patient had come out of the anaesthesia with a smile on her lips, as if she already knew the outcome by the sense of lightness inside her. Jamie seemed on the verge of fainting from exhaustion and relief once they were finished, so Claire had sent him home to rest while she finished her duties for the day.

“Let me help ye.” Jamie stretched his left hand to grab the cardboard box and she immediately noticed the bandage around his wrist.

“What’s this?” She questioned, alarmed, imprisoning his hand on a vice grip. Her lips felt numb,  _cold_. “Did you cut yourself?” Self-mutilation had been one of her many concerns about him, her eyes always scanning him for signs of any hidden cuts.

“Of course not.” Jamie gawked at her, his eyes widening in shock. “Christ! I made a tattoo.” He shrugged unfazed, as if going to a tattoo parlour was part of his regular activities.

“A tattoo?” It was Claire’s turn to stare at him, puzzled, her mouth slightly ajar. “I thought you said there was nothing else you wanted marking your body forever.”

“I changed my mind.” He tilted his head in amusement, raising a brow. “Do ye want to see it?”

“Do you want to  _show me_?” Claire rebutted, placing the food on the counter and crossing her arms.

Without responding, Jamie starting to unfold the bandage around his wrist, spinning it around. The white fabric finally fell at his feet and he offered her his arm, palm up.

The word inked there was simple enough to comprehend; what rendered her speechless was the lettering used, a sense of strangeness followed by sudden familiarity as she recognized her own handwriting.

_Scalpel_

Jamie had tattooed the word on the soft skin inside his left wrist, the small characters probably copied from the letters she had written him, back when he didn’t have another name to her. It was  _both of them_ , together in seven letters – what  _he was_  and what  _he meant to her_.

“This way I’ll remember.” He said haltingly, a tinge of crimson painting his high cheekbones. “Even when  _ye’re not with me_. Because today, for the first time in a long time, I felt in control.”

Claire enveloped his hand and brought the sensitive skin – covered with a thin plastic film – to her lips, pressing a soft kiss above the black letters. She felt Jamie’s body relaxing and, framing his face – still _much too gaunt_ ,  _much too haunted_  -, kissed him softly on the lips.


	8. The Woman

##  **_Part VIII – The Woman_ **

_Thieves_ , robbing each other’s mouths.

Wordless meetings of lips and tongue, brushes of palms, fortuitous like lovers evading reality. For the next couple of weeks, Jamie and Claire would meet inside a kiss, that always came unannounced and unplanned, finding them while they climbed the stairs of her apartment or in the proximity of folding laundry. Everything about such moments was inebriating, tasting of the tang of unlawfulness. A breach on their tacit agreement that they had ceased to be  _two who became one_.

They seldom speak, before or after such moments, knowing that words would give meaning to their actions. They would have to discuss  _what_ , _why_ ,  _how_.

And while Claire couldn’t resist the pull of Jamie, there was still a significant space between them; a crack where she could still fall in the process of reaching out to him, deep into a precipice that would definitively break her. There was reluctancy and sometimes almost  _anger_ , red-rimmed and rich, beckoning her to scrape her teeth against his lips, to  _hurt him_  in the only way she could.

Jamie was finally back at the  _Royal Infirmary_ , although they had agreed to keep his workload fairly small, and any surgeries supervised by another fully-trained surgeon. He still went to therapy most days of the week and paled at any mention of his time away, even if brought up in jest by another colleague.

“Chief Beauchamp,  _dearie_. There’s a lass here to see ye.” Glenna FitzGibbons, the new secretary overseeing the surgical department, peeked from the half-closed door of Claire’s office one afternoon.

She was matronly and unapologetically  _Scot_ ; her practicality rivalled with that of a general and her shrewdness with the sharpness of a ruling queen. Claire almost wept tears of joy when the short woman magically reduced her pile of delayed work by half, within two ours of starting in her new position. The fact that she stubbornly insisted in calling her by a title instead of her own name – even if preceded or followed by an endearment in her soothing brogue – was thoroughly overlooked in favour of her effectiveness.

“She doesna have an appointment but says it’s  _verra_  important. Maybe she’s a patient in need of yer help?” The plump woman tried to guess, looking expectantly at the female surgeon.

“You can let her in, Mrs. Fitz.” Claire sighed, pushing away a sufferable  _Morbidity & Mortality_ report, and adjusting her slightly dishevelled white lab coat. “I was about to take a break from this anyway.”

The woman allowed in had chestnut hair and Claire immediately recognized her gentle brown eyes – she had been haunted by the memory of her face for weeks.

“Hello.” The newly-arrived greeted her, with uncertainty –  _apprehensiveness_ – in her tone. Her voice was smooth and musical, filled with a Highland lilt that Claire had come to know so well.  “I’m Mary –  _Mary MacNab_.”

“ _Yes_.” Claire answered coldly, not giving her the courtesy of a formal introduction. She could feel heat rising on her cheeks and neck, her hands clenching into painful fists. “Why are you here?”

“Ye _know_  – about me.” Mary realized, observing the surgeon’s demeanour. Her skin, slightly golden from sun exposure, looked clammy. “I wasna sure if ye –“

“I know  _everything_.” Claire bit down on every word, pursing her lips in distaste. “And you’re  _not welcome_  in my hospital. Say whatever you came here to say and  _leave_.”

Mrs. Fitz peeped again from the door, a pleasant smile plastered on her generous lips, as a hostess of a dinner party ready to offer refreshments before the first course. “Do ye want some coffee or tea, lasses?” Noticing Claire’s aggravated stance and her crossed arms, her smile dwindled. “Perhaps something  _stronger_?”

“I don’t think we have something  _quite_  strong enough.” Claire blinked. “Besides, there’s no need.” She tilted her chin, attempting to reassure Glena with a gentle smirk. “Mary won’t be staying long.  _Thank you_ , Mrs. Fitz.” And with a significant eyebrow raise and a nod, the secretary was dismissed. Claire wondered if she would be listening behind the door, ready to intervene at the first sounds of a kerfuffle.

“Perhaps I shouldna have come.” Mary licked her lips, clearly nervous. “But I was concerned - I needed to make sure Jamie was alright.”

“How  _generous_  of you.” Claire snorted, throwing her a venomous look. “I think you’ve done  _quite enough_  for him – don’t you?”

The woman swallowed hard, opening her mouth as if to say something, but rapidly decided against it. Her hands – slender and calloused, Claire noticed – sought the support of the back of the chair in front of her.

“I’ll forever regret whatever role I played in hurting ye, Claire. I knew well enough what was between the two of ye, how deeply Jamie loved ye. The night  _it happened_ , I –“ Mary shook her head, biting down on her bottom lip. “Jamie had been recovering from the knife wound on his back, from defending a young woman on the streets. He was still awfully weak – from the wound, but mainly from constantly giving away his meals to civilians in town - but refused to rest while we worked.”

 _A knife wound. Jamie giving away his food._  Still so much Claire didn’t know about that period of his life; still so much he wasn’t able to share with her.

“It was a bloodshed.” Mary’s voice quivered, but she pushed on. Her words sounded mechanic, but not in the way of a practiced speech – in the way of someone who was hiding from a surge of unbearable emotion. “Our efforts barely made a difference. I came to Jamie when our shift ended – I couldn’t stop crying. He held me, told me I shouldn’t be alone.” The nurse’s breath itched, as if a sob had lodged in her throat. “There was nothing romantic or sexual about it. I knew he didna want me –  _I felt it then_.”

“But you did  _want him_.” Claire placed her palms on her desk, staring defiantly at Mary. “Jamie is convinced that you only wanted to feel connected; to feel what it is to be touched in kindness. But  _I think_  that you were in love with him.”

“I won’t lie.” The nurse held her gaze, sorrow dancing in her chocolate eyes. “I  _could_ have loved him. There aren’t many men like Jamie and certainly not many  _I’ve met_. But his heart only held your name – I wasna trying to stand between ye two. I respect him too much to stand on his way to true happiness.”

“You made advances on a committed man -  _a broken man_.” The Chief of Surgery hissed, aghast. Mary flinched, as if Claire had physically hit her. “Where was your respect  _then_?”

“ _I was broken too_. Ye dinna understand what it was like there!” Mary answered vehemently.

“Oh, believe me,  _I do_.” Claire said softly. “Knowing what you went through there is the  _only reason_  why I haven’t kicked you out of my office yet.”

“Afterwards, Jamie became a shell.” Mary whispered, fidgeting with her hands. She seemed to have aged years within the last few minutes. “Distanced himself from any comfort and became increasingly more reckless with his own life. If his mission hadn’t ended, he would have seen himself to a grave there.”

Claire glanced at her, a cold sweat blooming on the back of her neck.  _How close had he truly been from never returning?_

They were three broken people, united by the dark side of being human.  _Fallible_ ,  _flawed, aching_. The woman had come searching for news, perhaps as part of her own road to healing – could Claire really deny her such a small solace? “Jamie is… _healing_. He is getting the help he needs.”

“ _Good_.” Mary nodded, her mouth relaxing slightly. She straightened her shoulders, preparing to leave. “Again, I apologize for the pain I’ve unwillingly caused ye. Please, dinna tell Jamie I was here. Some people are best left only as memories.”

****

The door leading to Jamie’s room was opened, the soft sounds of his deep breathing inviting her in. Clearly, he had felt strong enough –  _whole enough_  - to sleep in a proper bed for the night, relinquishing the comfort and wisdom of the celestial bodies. The night felt precious around her, as if the air itself had been dipped in silver, making a treasure trove of her lungs.

Jamie was sleeping, curled on his side. There was a time when he would sleep sprawled on the bed, like a smug conqueror, seeking to hold the entire world during the night. That had changed after his return; he slept encased in himself, protecting the fragile thing within, no longer reaching out. But  _there_ – in the arch of his slim body, turned inwards – there was still a space where she could fit. There was still  _a place_  for her.

Forgiveness didn’t come as a lightening. If anything, it was like the raging sea – occasionally the waves receded enough for her to breathe again,  _to see clearly_ ; sometimes the knowledge of what had passed came crashing into her, leaving her a hairsbreadth away from drowning, from being taken away into the mass of water that was resentment.

There was a choice for her to make going forward – allow herself moments underwater,  _submerged_ , all the while experiencing the blueness of the sky in his eyes, in those instants of clarity; or to walk away, uncursed from the tide, but uncapable of feeling love again.

Unhurriedly, Claire laid down beside Jamie, fully dressed in her day clothes.

His eyes opened almost immediately, as if he had been waiting for her in his dreams. They stared into each other for a long time, quietly content to do so. Eventually, Jamie’s thumb traced her face, from temple to jaw. Claire closed her hand around his wrist, his tattoo etched on her palm.

“ _God, ye’re beautiful_. So  _beautiful_.” Jamie whispered, and his voice resounded with wonder and something akin to surprise. He looked like a newborn, opening his eyes for the first time, colours flickering into place. “I  _forgot_ – I tried so hard not to, but there was a time  _over there_  when I couldn’t remember the exact shade of yer eyes.  _Close enough_ , but not  _the same_. It was then when I knew I was  _truly lost_.”

“Will you forget again?” Claire asked, her voice almost inaudible. But in such closeness, he could read it on her lips,  _in her eyes_.  _The fear_ , kept at bay once by the force of their closeness, now threatening to install itself fully again.

“I ken that I almost lost ye.” Jamie’s thumb caressed her cheekbone, where small freckles appeared when her skin was sun-kissed.  _They had never had a summer together_. “That  _I can lose ye still_. That is only by the grace ye had chosen to give me that I may yet touch ye so.” His eyes were fierce, devouring her face with unmitigated hunger. “I gave away the right to love ye – so hardly won - without truly fighting for it. I’ll regret it for as long as I live – so  _no_ , I won’t forget again.  _Never again_.”

“You  _betrayed me_. You allowed me to believe I had been replaced in your heart. You never called. You  _held back_.” Claire listed his offenses, but no fury descended over her. Everything –  _outside and inside her heart_  – felt peaceful. The ground zero after a blast, levelled, where green weeds might be allowed to flourish in due time. “You said  _you loved me_. I  _believed it_. Now you start to show me again.”

“I do love ye. With everything that I am,  _little as it might be_ now.” He framed her face with his hands, his palms very warm and slightly moist from sleep. “But I want to give ye enough – and I’m still not sure that I can.” Jamie gulped down, his eyes wide with tormented fear. “ _Claire_ \- will ye risk the man that I am for the sake of the man ye once knew?”

“I already know  _you_.” Claire tenderly brushed his yet too-short hair, prickly under her fingers, and smiled softly. “And since you are in  _my_  guest room, I think the answer is plain enough to see.” Her fingers sought the tattoo on his chest, as they had so often before. She felt the goosebumps awakened by her touch, like blowing a candle to life. “Promise me you will never leave me again.”

 _“I promise_. I promise I’ll never leave ye, unless ye ask me to.” Jamie’s fingers brushed the long slope of her neck, admiring her marble skin, so perfectly carved. Claire promptly opened the fist few buttons of her blouse, exposing the curve of her ivory breasts.

Noticing how his breathing became more laboured with the sight of her, Claire slid an audacious hand over his abdomen, eliciting an even sharper intake of breath. “I once asked you if you were afraid. You said you weren’t –  _not around me_. Are you afraid now?”

“Aye.” Jamie closed his eyes for a second, lost in the sensation of her hand over the waistband of his sleeping pants. When he grew accustomed with her boldness, his hot lips found the corner of her mouth and he sucked slightly, flicking his tongue to erase the previous harshness.

“Why? We have been intimate after you came back.” Claire pointed, her nails grazing the side of his nipples. Jamie’s thumb found her navel, pressing down on her bellybutton, a queer sensation that left her thoroughly breathless.

“I’m ashamed to admit that I wasna really _here_.” He cupped her breast reverently, his index finger circling her breastbone, along the edge of her ribcage. “I was profoundly detached. Couldna allow ye to see me for  _what I was_ , then. I wanted so badly to find a way to ye – and couldn’t.”  

“Are you here  _now_?” She questioned softly, palming the hardness of him. He moaned then with abandon, his face twisted in a pleasure that bordered on pain. But his eyes never left her, never escaped towards the unseen – he was  _there, there, there_.  _Broken, scared, bruised, battered, haunted, hers_.

“ _I am_.” Jamie kissed her mouth, his tongue darting to taste Claire’s every word, allowing her to taste his own truth. His hand roamed across the expanse of her body, with a hesitance and tenderness that brought tears to her eyes, until his touch found her need. She was slick and ready, and his fingers pointed inside her, skilful and gentle, pushing as if he was trying to reach her heart from the inside.

Claire moved her hips, mindlessly seeking contact, giving him more access to her body. They touched each other unhurriedly, limbs twisted together, clawing and caressing with an unspoken need for possession _, for connection_.

 _Tell me again_. Each touch screamed.  _Tell me why you are mine and why I can’t let go_.


	9. Portree

##  **_Part IX – Portree_ **

“ _Happy Birthday_ , Beauchamp.” A low rumble sounded strangely close to Claire’s ear, swiftly followed by a small nip in her earlobe. She grunted and rolled on her side, pulling the sheet around her bare shoulders.

“Why are you awake?” Claire babbled, opening her eyes just enough to confirm that the room was still immersed in the long shadows that preceded dawn. From the other extremity of the bed, close to her feet, came the soft and reassuring purr of a satisfied and deeply asleep Adso. “Not even our cat is up yet.”

“Oh, is he  _ours_  then?” Jamie’s fingers, gently drawing circles on her ribcage underneath the covers, moved to tickle her just below her armpits. “I thought just yesterday he was  _“my overbearing cat”_.”

“When there is cat vomit all over  _your_  shoes, _then_  you can say whatever you want.” Claire explained in a sleepy voice, trying to ignore the very interesting way in which Jamie’s fingers were becoming more daring around her hipbones. “Now  _hush_ , Fraser, and go back to sleep.”

“Canna do that.” Jamie announced cheerfully, gently squeezing her bottom and making her yelp. The female surgeon opened one reluctant eye to inspect him, annoyed. He was beaming with energy and purpose, which made her heart quicken. For a moment, it was as if the night had been a time machine, bringing back the confident and easy-going man she had fallen in love with in the first place. “’Cause we are going on an adventure!”

“ _James Fraser_ ,” Claire finally fully opened her eyelids and furrowed her brows in his direction, fighting growing amusement. “Why do you sound like a bloody hobbit?”

Jamie offered her a throaty laugh that made her belly clench. He patted her arse companionly, as if complimenting her on a fine joke. “I might be furrier than ye – all  _smooth_  and  _silky_ in the right places,” His fingertips glided on the inside of her thigh, just above her knee. “But my feet arena hairy enough for that.”

“An adventure is it?” She gave him a lopsided smile, playing with the soft red waves of his hair, that had grown out in the previous months. Jamie had finally moved back to his own place a couple of moons before, although they still found themselves on each other’s bed –  _and some other creative places_  - more often than not. “That sounds very risky and certainly exhilarating, but I have a splenectomy and a meeting with the board of directors today. No rest for the  _wicked Chief_.”

“No  _ye don’t_.” He nuzzled her neck and Claire felt more than saw his broad smile, his teeth teasingly grazing her sensitive skin. “Mrs. Fitz postponed all yer meetings for the next couple of days and John, Louise and Joe are taking over all our surgeries. Yer  _all mine_ , Beauchamp.”

“ _Hmmm_  – and what do you propose to do with this  _claiming_  of yours?” Claire’s leg skilfully encircled his waist, locking their hips in delicious closeness.

“ _That_ , for sure.” Jamie hummed and sucked the slightly pink skin between her breasts, making her sigh in bliss. “But I intend to take ye away before I make ye come  _again_ ,“ His tongue traced the swell of her right breast, next to her silver pendant. “ _And again_ ,” Jamie’s very warm hand lightly cupped her, promising he would see to her need in due time. “ _And again_.” He finished with a chaste kiss on the tip of her nose. Claire craned her neck to kiss him fully on the lips, her whole body now thoroughly awake by his efforts, but he clicked his tongue in impatience and jumped out of the bed.

“I already packed ye a wee bag yesterday and brought it over.” He announced over his shoulder, as Claire lazily admired his glorious bare arse, her head propped up on her hand. The timid light of the rising sun ignited the outlines of the scattered scars on his back, as he moved around his bedroom. “Best ye make sure I’m not forgetting anything important.” Jamie threw her a mischievous look, dark and fiery, while he headed towards the bathroom. “The coral underwear is already in there.”

***

Jamie drove with his arm braced on the edge of the open window, the fragrant breeze of a very mild October almost corporeal, sitting on the back of the car with them as they journeyed across the  _Highlands_. He donned a content smile, his free hand frequently caressing Claire’s knee and thigh in a thoughtless manner. His deep blue eyes peeked over the rim of his fashionable sunglasses, amused, as she sang along with the radio; sometimes dramatically so, other times no more than scattered words light as her heart.

After a few hours of driving - during which Jamie had resisted Claire’s stubborn attempts for him to reveal their final destination -, they were advancing through the  _Kyle of Lochalsh_ , the  _Skye Bridge_  extending just ahead like the spinal cord of a dragon, with the quaint village of  _Kyleakin_ visible just beyond it.

“I’m taking ye to some of my favourite places in the  _Isle of Skye_ , Beauchamp.” Jamie shared, his thumb playing with her knuckles. “I thought it was time that ye saw more of Scotland than the insides of the  _Royal Infirmary_. And with a true Scottish guide to show ye around.”

“ _Thank you_ , Jamie.” Claire smiled happily and softly bumped her forehead against his shoulder, inhaling his scent of coffee hurriedly drank, lemongrass and peppermint from his chewing gum.

They drove along the A87, admiring the  _Beinn na Cailliach_  at the distance, with bared curves against the sky like the exposed body of a lover. Jamie told her legends about the places their eyes encompassed, about  _gods_  and  _giants_  and  _people who loved a great deal_. His voice had the languid cadence of an accomplished storyteller, turning more melodic each time a word of  _Gaidligh_  found its way to his lips. The fascinating language became part of the landscape, shining with tones of gold in her ears, as if they were the only people in the world, experiencing the very first day.

They stopped a couple of times on the side of the road, allegedly to stretch their legs and take a couple of photographs with their phones – carefree selfies captured by Jamie’s long arm, while Claire made funny faces to the lens, until he burst with laughter -, but mostly as an excuse to touch each other.  _His palm seeking her waist_ ,  _her fingers creeping inside the waistband of his jeans_.

_Portree_  appeared suddenly, a gathering of civilization turned to the stunning harbour fringed by cliffs, a town permanently on watch, a gatekeeper of the  _Inner Hebrides_. Boats floated like clouds on the mirror of water, almost within touching distancing from the picturesque pier.

“This is us,  _birthday lass_.” Jamie smirked, clearly pleased with Claire’s dazzled face. “I’ll show ye our home for the weekend.”

The small house on the outskirts of  _Portree_  was no more than a cottage, with a sturdy roof and large windows, a wind chime suspended from the narrow porch echoing like a kiss from glassy lips. Every trace of humanity was silent around them, leaving to the earth and wind to fill in the void, an ancient language that was more like a constant flow.

“This is absolutely lovely.” Claire whispered, leaning against Jamie, who kissed her temple. He entwined their fingers together, tracing the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist, in the exact same place where his own was marked by her handwriting. “How did you find this place?”

“I’ve come across it a few years back, while I was exploring the region on a holiday. Even then, ye were the only person I thought I’d like to bring here.” He confessed slightly embarrassed, but his blue eyes were fathomless. “Let’s go inside.” Jamie suggested in a husky voice, already dripping with smouldering promise. Claire felt a rush of arousal, urgent and tightening, a closed fist that only he could open to free her.

As soon as they managed to open the front door – the lock slightly rusty and the old wood swollen from the sea breeze – and closed it behind them, Jamie’s mouth was on Claire’s, pushing her bodily against the frame. His big hands seemed to be everywhere, prescient of her need,  _fondling_ ,  _pinching_ ,  _pressing_.

“God,  _I want ye_.” Jamie grunted breathlessly, as her hand gripped him.

Jamie fulfilled his promise, taking care of her body with a reverence and commitment that left her more than a little breathless. Under the demands –  _offerings_  – of his body, Claire was guided past pleasure, pain and into a dissolved state in which she felt her body cleaving, allowing her to leave herself behind. It was perfect sex, but also a joining that would have been impossible to their previous selves, to those people who saved some secret places from one another. Jamie was  _inside_ ,  _outside_ , and she was just the thing in the middle, paper-thin in his hands.

Her exquisitely used body floated in softness - Claire didn’t quite remember how she had ultimately reached the plush sofa where her body rested. Feeling the chill of Jamie’s absence, she very reluctantly raised her head to look for him.

Jamie was braced against the panoramic window of the cottage, stark naked. There were shadows in his body, brought on by the clouds around the harbour, undecided about where to kiss him. Claire couldn’t see his face, turned outside, but the set of his jaw told her that he was away for the moment.

It was a taint in her happiness, those intangible moments when she couldn’t reach Jamie. But it was a price they had agreed to pay,  _together_.

Silently, Claire went to Jamie and kissed him between his shoulder blades, the bones of his spine still a bit too salient under her lips.

“Have ye recovered conscience, then?” His voice sounded unhinged and he cleared his throat, turning to enfold her in his arms. His eyes were darker, fighting to reflect the light once again. “Was a wee bit concerned for ye.”

“If I remember correctly,  _you_  collapsed on top of  _me_ , Fraser.” Claire bit her bottom lip, looking at him under her lashes. “It was a  _very fine_ birthday gift.”

“Hm.” Jamie kissed her, imprisoning her bottom lip between his teeth and tongue. “The trip was the actual gift.  _That_  was just me, wanting ye beyond all that is wise.”

“Wisdom is relative.” Claire leaned to the window, observing the idyllic sight. “Do you think we’ll manage to go back outside at some point, or just stay inside shagging each other senseless?”

“I expect we’ll be hungry at some point.” He kneaded the small of her back, gently scraping her curves, while his famished mouth found the back of her neck. “ _Much later_.”

***

“I don’t think I’ve seen ye this happy in a long time.” Claire confessed, her fingertips circling the lettering on his chest. Her chin rested just above his heart, as they laid on the floor of the cottage, tangled together amidst quilts and blankets.

“I feel… _more relaxed_  here.” Jamie admitted, playing with her indomitable brown curls. “Not exactly  _peaceful_ , but as close to it as I might expect, I guess.”

“Is it the Highlands?” She tried to guess. “Being closer to the place you were born?”

“No.” He tilted her chin up, kissing her delicately on the lips. It always amazed her, the opposites that dwelled in such a man; the incredible spectrum of emotions and touches he could conceal. “It’s _ye_. Being in this wee cottage with ye in my arms - it’s a white scrap of paper and I feel that we might fill it completely, without having to erase what was written there before.” He swallowed hard, struggling to find the appropriate words. “My house reminds me of those first dark –  _darker_ – days. I was happy there  _before_ , but canna seem to find the way of it now. Yer house,  _well_.” Jamie licked his lips, searching her eyes. “I’ll forever be grateful for the haven I’ve found there, but I think I need a place to call my own again.”

“Maybe you should move, then.” Claire suggested, caressing the moist hair behind his ear. “Find a new house.”

“Will ye move in with me?” Jamie stammered, making her heart skip a prolonged beat. She felt the slight tremor of his hands, while he brushed the sides of her arms in nervousness. “ _I’m sorry_.” He chuckled tensely. “That was  _foolish_  of me to ask. I ken we are only now finding our footing. Forget that I even mentioned it.”

Claire’s hear thrummed haphazardly and, for a moment, she focused all her attention in making sure she wasn’t about to die in the next few seconds. Her sympathetic nervous system was firing, screaming –  _begging_  – for her to flee.

Though Jamie’s recuperation had been remarkable, he was still somewhat unstable. Good days greatly outnumbered the bad ones, but they still existed, and casted a long shadow. Her commitment to Jamie was undeniable; the choice she had made, time and again, had been  _him_. But he was asking for a merger of their lives, no key that could open an apartment empty of him if things didn’t work out.  _No shelter_.

But while the thought scared her enough to knock air out of her lungs, she could see it.  _She could see it all_. The long days together,  _the longer nights_. Toothbrushes conspiring together in the sink; battles for the place in the sofa with the best light to read; her yearly attempt at cooking and the loving way he would eat her burnt crisps.

“I need a bigger closet.” Claire said slowly, her voice almost inaudible. Words seemed to come even before the thought was fully formed. “Since  _we_ ’ll be looking for a new house.”


	10. Skylight

##  **_Part X – Skylight_ **

Claire breathed slowly,  _in_  and  _out_ , forcing herself to reign in her frustration. It was pouring, a waterfall forming on every window, droplets patient enough to turn into rivers. She remembered a different day then, when droplets cascaded over _his_  body, and -  _oh_  – how she had wished to drown in him.

_“You’ll freeze to death!” Claire admonished Jamie, laughing. They stood on the edge of Loch Leathan, after spending the morning climbing The Storr, and the male surgeon had started to peel off items of clothing._

_Sitting there on the summit, amongst the mist of Scotland as if they were part of its fabric themselves, ignoring a time that had been too lazy to call on them. Jamie’s hands had been uncannily hot, even under the light drizzle of Scotland’s temperamental weather, and they had been enfolding hers for a long time. They enjoyed the breathtaking scenery and talked in a hushed tone, as if not to disturb the inhabitants of such a magical place. There, in the wild that was part of him, Jamie had finally told her the story about his stabbing in Syria._

_“Nah.” He grinned over his shoulder, wiggling his brows. “It’s perfect for a wee swim. Won’t ye join me, Beauchamp?”_

_“I’d rather not.” She scrunched her nose, stealthily admiring the shape of his body as it emerged from the layers of clothing. “If you drown, I’m not going in to save you either.”_

_“Heartless woman of mine.” Jamie sighed dramatically, starting to walk towards the loch. Claire could see the way that the copper hairs in his arms stood on end, in spite of his bravado._

_“Heartless beats turning into a popsicle.” The female surgeon waved at him, as he intrepidly advanced on the greyish waters of an overcast day. It was a perfect picture, photographed by the lens of her memory – Jamie standing tall and beautiful, waist-deep in the cold water, his back turned to her, red hair softly blowing in the breeze. Peaceful. Unabridged._

_When he had finally come out, dripping wet, he had nimbly captured her and glued their bodies together – hers fully clothed, his damp and cold. Claire shrieked and put on a façade of displeasure; but in truth, being as close to him as possible was everything she yearned for._

_“Will ye warm me then?” He had whispered huskily on her ear._

With a warmth growing inside her, brought on by the reveries of that day in the Highlands –  _a sparkling candle, showering light over the dark corners_  -, Claire prepared to brave her way outside.

_Pestilence, War, Famine, Death. The Horsemen of the Apocalypse_. Claire believed such an unholy group was lacking a dark fifth member, capable of breaking the strongest of spirits –  _House hunting_.

They had started to search for potential houses with levity and humour. The decision was fresh like a crunchy pastry in their tongues, light-hearted beyond measure that they had decided to take on such a step together. It was a sense of  _renewal_  and  _possibility_ that almost made them dizzy.  

But soon enough the task had brought them to a thunderous heel.

It had started with a simple enough concept –  _renting_ versus  _buying_ a house. Jamie was adamant that buying was the appropriate move; a fairly good investment of money, all the while cultivating a sense of ownership that was undoubtedly a genetic inheritance from the caves of old. Claire, who had never truly loved any roof over her head, but instead the people and experiences of a nomad life, was inclined towards the freedom of a rental.

It had been a mild disagreement between them, with a few exasperated eye-rolls and enthused clicks of tongue, that was sorted when they agreed to meet halfway with a  _rent-to-own_  deal. That night both of them had been especially assertive in the bedroom, as if their lovemaking was a prolongation of their semi-argument, one that could be won with the yielding of a body.

The next divergence had been on  _location_. Jamie preferred to live on the outskirts of Edinburgh, where they could find a quieter life and some communion with nature. Claire, always the  _Chief of Surgery_ , didn’t want to be too far away from the hospital in case a disaster happened. A night that had started with a lovely dinner of homemade pasta and delicious wine, came to an underwhelming end with half-eaten dishes, inflamed egos and no sex at all in spite of her new underwear.

However, the real test would come with  _house visiting_. The first apartment they scheduled to visit had been labelled as a  _“catch”_  by a very cheery real estate agent, clearly the first sign of impending doom. The property was undoubtedly of a competitive price - and with very sizable areas -, but almost every surface was covered with the most hideous wallpaper, sporting an assortment of golden roses. Jamie had to quickly drag away a hysterically-laughing-Claire, nimbly apologizing to the confused agent – whose taste for jewellery should have been the first blatant red flag.

While Jamie seemed to be willing to make several concessions on his requirements, in order for them to work things through, Claire always managed to find a  _downside_ ,  _malfunction_ ,  _deformity_ ,  _flaw_ ,  _shortcoming_ or just general  _unpleasantness in_  every place they visited.  _The ceilings, too low. The light, too dim. The kitchen, too big. The neighbourhood, too chaotic.  The floors, too worn out_.

Following their last experience at house raiding, they had shared an almost silent and detached journey home, that left Claire feeling irascible and in the mood to pick up a fight – although she wasn’t sure about  _what_. That night Jamie had gone to his nightshift at the hospital while she went to bed alone. Throughout the night she battled with the sheets and pillows, feeling as if she was going under.

In the morning, Claire woke up – bleary-eyed and even more tousled  _than usual_  – to a soft kiss on her lips, attached to a body that smelled of  _disinfectant_ ,  _deodorant-over-male-sweat_ and _home_.

“How was work, Fraser?” She asked in a grumble.

“Alright. A couple of car accidents kept me busy.” Jamie answered, his thumb lightly brushing her cheek. She felt a kink on the skin of his digit, probably a small cut inflicted while he worked on the A&E. His eyes –  _tired, tender_  – were unvulgarly serious. “I’m heading to my place. Just wanted to give ye a good mornin’ kiss.”

“Why?” Claire furrowed her brow, sleep drifting away completely. “I have the day off today. You can stay here.”

“I think I should leave ye alone today.” He said haltingly, tracing her bottom lip. His words were gentle, without any harshness, but wounded her as if his fingernail had pierced through the fragile skin of her mouth. “To think a little, perhaps.”

“About  _what_?” She pursed her lips, folding her arms against her chest in slight annoyance. He breathed deeply and looked away from her, as if it pained him to say the next words with their eyes connected.

“I’d never resent ye if ye changed yer mind, ye ken?” He finally whispered, his shoulders slightly slumped. “I’d understand if you thought it was too hard to take the step of living together. If ye werena ready for it.”

“Why would you even say  _something like that_?” Claire reproached indignantly, brushing the hair away from her face into a loose knot. “We have another house booked to visit tomorrow. I’m  _actually_ excited about this one.”

“Are ye, Claire?” Jamie raised a ruddy brow, his indecently attractive mouth pressed into a thinner line than usual. “ _Truly_? Because I’m under the impression that yer heart might think otherwise. I ken ye’re not a frivolous person, nor shallow - and yet, every step of this has been a struggle. Ye manage to find a defect in the most meaningless thing and I canna help but wonder if  _this means_  –  _well_ , if this is yer way of stopping it from happening altogether.”

Claire gawked at him. “That is the  _most ridiculous_  thing you’ve _ever_ said.”

“Really?” The corners of his mouth twitched. “I’m sure the competition is  _very stiff_  on that  _particular_  department. But aye,  _I mean it_  – I’m no’ convinced that ye arena doing this just to please me, lass.”

“Oh, yes – because I’m such a  _crowd pleaser_.” She joked mordantly, throwing her legs off the bed to get up. Her heart was thumping wildly, as if he had poked her inside her chest. “I need coffee to deal with this level of craziness.  _Stay or go_ , do whatever you want to – but spare me this  _nonsense_.”

Jamie had swiftly followed her to the kitchen and, without uttering another word, kissed her hair – she almost hugged him,  _but didn’t_  - and left her apartment.

Claire sat at her kitchen table for hours, her bitter and somewhat earthy coffee turning cold on the mug, replaying inside her mind the last couple of weeks. Thoughts were divided in piles and columns, and she tried to establish patterns, like a paymistress admiring perfectly carved coins that could create incredible sums. When those patterns failed, she was forced to move them around, to a place where there was  _hurt_  but also  _sense_.

_Was Jamie right_?  _Had she subconsciously tried to sabotage the prospect of a new life together_?

It wasn’t him –  _them_.  _Of that_ , she was sure. There was no trace of doubt in her mind that James Fraser was the only man that could make sense inside her house. He was  _the gate_ _to enter herself_ ,  _the_ _window to look beyond her_  and  _the bed to dream of more_. He was the clear path to all her tomorrows.

But Claire had no clue about the expected looks of a proper family house. She had been to friend’s houses while growing up, and some of her colleagues at the hospital had children and extended families, whose apartments she visited on occasion. Of course, there were also  _films_  and  _books_  and _series_ and a myriad of mirrors that inaccurately reflected the daily life of real people.  Claire was simply caught up in her inadequacy; in all the things regular people took for granted, that she knew so little about.

She sighed and leaned against the table, her forehead pressed on the back of her folded hands. When her emotions were under control – bubbling away, but contained within her borders -, Claire picked up her phone and texted Jamie.

Claire:  _I messed up. Sorry._

Jamie:  _I’m sorry too_ ,  _for pushing the subject._

_Jamie: Do you want to wait then?_

Claire:  _No. I just need to talk to you more, instead of going mental._

_Jamie: Ha. Are you alright now?_

_Claire: Not yet. I need to find us a house._

_Claire: I do want to live with you. It’s the other stuff that gets in the way. But I’ll do better, I promise._

And that’s how she had found herself on that rainy day, braving the weather to meet Jamie at the location of the apartment they were going to visit, her flaming hope smothered into a timid spark.

The new real estate agent, a middle-aged serious brunette that exuded a quiet competence, received them with a nod of the head and a few words, that were welcoming enough without being too effusive. “I’ll leave ye to explore a little without me fussing around ye. I’ll be back presently.”

The flat was luminous and wide, with a spare room that could be turned into a practical office. Claire frowned when she noticed that the kitchen had an entire wall painted in a bright green; a furrow that deepened when she realized the floor was significantly crooked on the living room, as if the house itself was trying to open a mouth and speak to its inhabitants.  

Jamie was out of sight, probably exploring the small terrace, and Claire padded slowly to the main bedroom, anxiety building up inside her chest. _Another failure_. Forever,  _out of place_.

But then she saw _it_ , as she stared into the centre of the room. And it was as if every piece of her had fallen into place; as if her life had conspired to lead her to that moment.

“Jamie.” She called almost breathless, as he returned to the living room through the sliding doors. His eyes were hooded, as he seemed to be preparing himself for another rude blow, but he offered her his hand nonetheless. “This is  _the one_.  _Our house_.”

“ _What_?” He gawked at her, looking befuddled. “Ye  _did_  notice the floor, aye? I’ve never seen something quite like it.”

“Yes, it certainly gives it a lot of…  _character_ , but this house is meant for us. I’m sure of it.” Claire kissed him shortly on the lips. Jamie inspected her with open intensity, as if she was about to grow a third eye on the middle of her forehead.

“The rest is certainly bonny enough.” He offered the female surgeon a tentative smile, while still studying her. “It’s not that I’m not happy that ye think so – but why the sudden change of heart?”

Instead of responding him, Claire grabbed his hand and guided him towards the bedroom. Her eyes were trapped in his face, thirsty to drink of his expression when he saw what made it so unique.  _So perfect_.

The ceiling of the room, painted in deep white, was oblique like the cask of a ship. That alone made it remarkable, but what allured Claire laid in its heart, just above the place where a bed should be positioned.

_A skylight_. 

Just a layer of glass separating them from what lay beyond; the universe allowed to peek at their joined lives.

“I want you always by my side.” Claire said softly, her voice husky. “ _That_  is the only thing I  _know_ about our future home.”

Wordless, Jamie turned to her and kissed her deeply,  _unhurriedly_.  _He would kiss her many times, just so, on that exact spot_. Claire’s fingers entwined themselves on his wavy red hair, as he gripped her waist to raise her from the ground. Jamie laid her down on the dusty floorboards and stretched himself beside her, the absence of an  _actual bed_  an overlooked detail.  _Together, they gazed at the sky_.

He would always have the stars to guide him and she would always have his arms to hold her.

_A home_.


	11. STD

##  **_Part XI – STD_ **

There are moments when it seems possible that happiness could  _actually last forever_.

Fractions of time, when the light is so intense that complete darkness seems farfetched, a tale of caution only suited to those who never experienced blinding by light. It’s not a euphoria, but a quiet content that runs  _bone-deep_ , like a waveless mass of water, filling us to the brim.  In those moments we almost convince ourselves that we already had our fair share of unfortunate events –  _certainly enough for a lifetime_  - and what remains is a permanent compensation for our losses.

Those moments  _fool us_   _completely_. There is no life to be lived without  _duality_.

Their lovemaking had been incredibly satisfying, crowned by two  _toe-curling_  orgasms for Claire. The first one came after only a couple of powerful thrusts, while Jamie firmly held her on top, straddling him. He had worked her into complete surrender throughout foreplay, a mission started with raunchy whispers at the hospital and continued with two dextrous fingers inside the building’s elevator. The second one came as a reward for his persistency, as he weaved a web around her like a competent spider, the fixed point of their joining the only real thing amidst a sea of  _pulsing_ , _throbbing_ ,  _harnessing_.

They were still getting used to it - making love, sedately, in  _their home_. Initially they had found those instants of togetherness between  _crates_  and  _boxes_  and  _half-assembled furniture_. It felt like a new discovery, as if they had fresh bodies, building each other block by block along with the shared space. After three months of cohabitation, finally everything felt like a finished entity, perfectly balanced,  _solid_.

Jamie mumbled something close to her ear, his voice no more than a dart unable to pierce through the thick haze of her bliss, and Claire struggled to refocus her attention.

“What did you say?” She slightly turned her head, damp curls sprawled on his chest, mixing with the black ink of his tattoo.

“I was thinking…” Jamie –  _sleek with sweat_ ,  _glowing_ ,  _sated_ \- hesitated, his thumbs brushing her delicate shoulder blades. “Well,  _nevermind_.”

“What is it?” Claire positioned her chin on his sternum, observing as he turned an endearing shade of pink. “Given how fiercely you’re blushing, I’d say it’s about  _sex_.”

He threw her a sheepish look. “I was just wondering –  _well_ , since we are  _exclusive_  –“

“ _Exclusive, Fraser_?” Claire raised a brow in jest, biting her bottom lip playfully, and Jamie pinched her buttock in retribution. He quickly kissed her,  _open-mouthed_  and  _possessively_ , as if to prove that no other man could have such a privilege.

“ _As I was saying_ ,” Jamie said vehemently when their mouths parted, highlighting the rudeness of her interruption. “I dinna intend to  _fuck_ anyone else for the rest of my life and I truly hope ye’d consider not to either. So, I was thinking that –  _maybe_ – we could stop using a condom. I see ye taking yer wee birth control pill every night.”

“I do take it.” Claire nodded, rolling to place her head next to his so their eyes could meet, sharing the same pillow. The moon shone in liquid silver just above them, reaching its zenith across the skylight. “Is this your way of saying you haven’t been  _enjoying yourself_? Because it really seemed like you did, just minutes ago.”

“ _No_. It isna that.” He traced her cheekbone with his long fingers, the blue of his eyes deep and unfathomable. “I won’t pretend it’s the exact same thing for a man –  _with_  or _without_  –, but I always find incredible pleasure in  _touching ye_ , _watching ye_.” Jamie sighed, his palm caressing the curve of her shoulder. “But I do crave the  _feel of ye_ , completely within reach. The thought that I could slip inside ye with no barriers between us.”

“Honey-lipped man.” Claire said softly, feeling a renewed rush of arousal between her thighs. “I’ve also thought about it. It’s different for  _a woman too_  without  _it_ , you know? It’s –  _heightened_.”

There was a glimpse of true interest in his eyes and he smiled, mischievously and sweetly, cupping her breast with his warm hand. “Would ye be willing then?”

“Yes.” She kissed the inside of his wrist, her nails lightly scratching his navel in a suggestive way. “First we’ll have to get tested for sexually transmitted diseases, just to be on the safe side, and then –  _au naturel_.”

***

On the next common day off from work, Jamie and Claire arranged to go to a drop-in STD Clinic. Although they could have easily run some blood tests at the  _Royal Infirmary_ , both agreed that the privacy of a clinic, where no one knew them, was unquestionably preferable.

The waiting room was laden with people: some nervous teenagers, looking terrified or positively defiant, undoubtedly reassessing some life choices and the possible wrath of their parents; a couple of women with long fingernails and tired eyes, that made a profession out of their bodies; a few couples presenting a united front, while their hearts hammered relentlessly their respective ribcages; and an array of solitary individuals seeking reassurance or counselling in blessed anonymity.

At the front desk they were received by a petite woman, who looked quite like a benevolent witch from a fairy tale book, smiling encouragingly at them with a natural ease that was the product of much training. “Welcome!” She peeked over the rim of her purple eyeglasses. “Please take a sit and fill out these forms. The doctor will be with you shortly.”

Jamie raised a brow to Claire who shrugged and grimaced. They took two adjoining seats on a quiet corner of the room, pen in hand, ready to answer the  _very personal_  questions presented.

The inquiry started blandly enough, with questions regarding  _family history_ ,  _previous medical data_  and  _habits_. But soon enough, it dove straight into the mortifying area of  _sexual history_. The first few questions of Claire’s sheet were easy enough:  _age of menarche_ ,  _cycle duration_ ,  _PMS symptoms_ ,  _previous pregnancies_  and  _complications_.

While she happily fulfilled the details of her ovarian function, Jamie answered the male version of such questions with the concentration and slightly vexed look of a student taking a final exam. Fighting guffaw, the female surgeon read the next set of questions, of a much more  _intrusive nature_ :  _age of first coital encounter_ ,  _number of partners_ ,  _anal practice_  and  _a number_  of other interrogationsthat left her feeling remarkably  _vanilla_.

The first answer was simple enough; she vividly remembered discussing it with Jamie on their first formal date, sitting on his kitchen, when she had truly realized she  _wanted him_.

The sum of previous shags posed a more complicated conundrum; while the clinic had mercifully tried to simplify the matter by making it a multiple choice answer ( _0-4_ ,  _5-10_ ,  _more than 10_ ), Claire could feel Jamie’s eyes curiously peeking to her form, like a flashlight in a dim cave. She quickly abandoned the idea of counting aloud through her fingers, instead shamelessly glancing towards Jamie’s papers.

“Do ye no’ remember how many were there?” Jamie whispered, doing a very poor job of trying to hide his scandalized look. He had categorically ticked the box  _5-10_.

“I’m thinking!” She protested mildly, enjoying the chance to make him a little uncomfortable. “Somewhere between  _five_  and  _a thousand_ , I’m sure.” Claire cocked an eyebrow, looking at him with faked innocence. “I was a bit  _wild_ back in my college days.”

“Hm.” He groaned shortly, his lips pressed together – although the corners were turned up in a half-smile and his eyes bore no shadows. “ _More than ten_ , then?”

“No.” She drew a perfect cross on the middle box, placing the paper in a way that would allow Jamie to openly look at it. “ _Eight_  actually. But I’m glad that you are so  _open-minded_ , Fraser. When I told it to –  _to Frank_ , he accused me of sleeping with the entire rugby team.” Claire shrugged, offering him a lopsided smile. “I had to explain him that rugby union has fifteen players on each side, so I still had some work left to do.”

Jamie snorted and gently kissed her temple, his cobalt eyes intent. “It seems that I’m at a disadvantage –  _six lasses_. And I think  _that will be it_  for me.”

“Oh,  _shit_!” Claire giggled loudly, covering her mouth in apology as faces turned to gaze at her quizzically. “You are actually number  _nine_ , Fraser.” She inspected him, her eyes softening – whiskey to caramel, sticky just for him. “Like a cat, you are my ninth life –  _my last one_.”

From that point on they used the posed questions to confess information and details to each other. Although more than a year had passed since the day Claire had walked into Jamie’s house, decided to admit her feelings for him, they had spent a considerable amount of that period separated. There was still much knowledge to share and they savoured the task, like an ice-cream melting into their mouths in a scorching summer day, sweet and slightly unexpected.

We can be intimate with someone without knowing the truly fine mechanisms of their inner-working; those discoveries are like the first few chapters of a story to which we already know the ending –  _contextualizing_  and  _enriching_. They make the people we love take on another shape, expanding the limits of what we cherish about them.

Claire brushed a couple of stray curls away from her face, as she jotted the name of her current combined pill. The following question surveyed any previous use of intrauterine devices and she absentmindedly nibbled on the tip of her pen, contemplating the idea.

“You know,” The female surgeon said slowly, lowering her voice not to disturb the other patients nearby. A young woman four chairs down seemed to be on the verge of a nervous meltdown. “An IUD would be pretty great, coming to think about it. A decade without having to remember to take a daily pill – I’d definitely consider it.”

“What do ye mean,  _a decade_?” Jamie questioned, befuddled. His red hair was curling at the nape, in the heated and humid atmosphere of the waiting room. “Ye’ll be stopping eventually in any case, aye?”

Claire felt a sudden wave of dizziness and an intense nausea made her stomach churn. “Why would I stop taking it?” She asked quietly, a numbness pinching her cheeks like sharp needles.  _Realization_.

“ _To have bairns_.” The male surgeon gawked at her, as if inquiring about her well-being and general sanity. The absolute paleness of her face must have alarmed him, because he moved to kneel in front of her and took her much smaller hands in his. “Are ye ill, Claire? What’s the matter?”

“Jamie.” She muttered, her voice seemingly lost in the cold void of the room. “I –  _I don’t want to have children_.”

It was a small sound,  _the one that left his lips_. A moan, a sob, air moving to give space to an invisible blow.  _A terrible sound_ , worse than any scream or curse she had ever heard.

The sound of a heart,  _breaking_.

***

Their journey home was completely silent, filled with the kind of tension that was an argument in itself. They drove with an electrical storm thundering between them, each holding on for dear life to their respective seats.

When Claire opened the front door, Jamie quickly crossed the hallway in the direction of their bedroom, almost sliding on the crooked floor. His shoulders were hunched and the set of his jaw painful to watch. She followed him with light steps, a sense of strangeness – of  _inevitability_ – drowning her.

He was moving around, picking up and quickly discarding items, as if he had lost the ability to perform simple daily tasks. His shoes had been thrown to a corner, which was an alarming sign of his distress, and Claire avoided the sight when she sat on the edge of their bed.

“Will you say something?” Claire finally pleaded. She had meant to sound defiant and maybe irrationally angry –  _battle-armed_ ,  _secluded_ -, but only managed to  _beg_  in a broken voice. “ _Please_ , Jamie.”

“I dinna think that there is something left to say about it.” Jamie breathed deeply, his back turned to her while he removed his pyjama bottoms from the large wardrobe. His voice sounded vacant, like an entire house left empty inside his throat. “Ye seem to have  _already decided for the both of us_ , aye?”

“I decided  _nothing_  for  _anyone_!” She retorted between teeth, her fists curling on the coverlet. “I’ve never wanted to become a mother – it was never part of  _my plan_. The subject just never came up before between us.”

“ _We moved in together_!” He snarled and turned to look at her, his arms crossed, the bluish veins visible on his toned forearms. “When did ye think would be the appropriate moment to tell me?”

“Oh, because you clearly told me you planned on having a  _bloody litter_!” Claire sniggered, pulling a loose thread from the knitted blanket in frustration. There had been a line on Jamie’s form where he had been asked to write the number of intended offspring.  _Three_.  _He wanted to have three kids._ “Because the way  _I see it_ , it is as much of a choice as it is to have none! Why should I inform  _you_  and not the contrary?”

“I don’t know any other woman who doesna want to have children.” He looked away from her, towards the skylight in the centre of the room. “That’s all.”

“That’s rich.” She brushed her face, anger seeping through her like a second heart, pumping something dark and murky. “Do you really intend to make me feel like an aberration – like less of woman, just – _less_  – or is it just a side effect of behaving like a fool?”

“Yer body yer decision, is that it?” Jamie took off his shirt, squashing it into a ball. Claire almost didn’t recognize his eyes. “I can only serve ye when ye will and have no’ say in it?”

“I never thought you’d want children either.” Claire pushed back with her words, discarding her own items of clothing in fury. “After everything that happened to you in Syria and –“

“Ye think I’m  _damaged_.” He tilted his head, studying her as if he was truly seeing her for the first time. “That I’m not  _suited_  to become a father.”

“I never said that!” The female surgeon waved her open palms, exasperated. “This is a personal decision and you’re making me feel like a criminal, Jamie. Maybe we should spend the night apart to cool down and talk tomorrow.”

He paused, became very still.  _Expectant_. There was a chasm of fear in his eyes and then, again, complete darkness. “I promised I’d never leave ye again.”

“…Unless I asked you to.” She finished, biting the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. The faint taste of iron soothed her inner turmoil, anchored her to things that were real,  _immediate_.

“Are ye truly asking?” He insisted in a husky voice, half-naked in the middle of their bedroom.

The glorious giddiness felt just hours before,  _gone_.  _Adrift somewhere, in the frightening space between them._


	12. Deep Tissue

##  **_Part XII – Deep Tissue_ **

Jamie didn’t know how he came to be there, looking from the outside into the life he had wanted.

After finishing his surgery – a simple affair, finding suitable concentration the only difficulty posed by it – his footsteps had led him to the maternity ward on the third floor. He had visited it seldom, as he recalled; once to call on an OR nurse who had just given birth, and on one occasion to consult on a recent mother with abdominal pain. It was the gate of life and surgeons tended to work closer to the  _other side_.

Several newborns occupied the nursery. Some with tufts of soft, creamy, brown hair; some with a cowlick made of sunflower yellow; a couple with an endearing bald scalp, that left the family to wonder and coo about possible resemblances to their progenitors; and in one case, that left Jamie’s chest painfully constricted at the sight, a mass of conspicuous red hair. The ward was sweltering, seemingly emanating the heat of a mother’s womb – fooling the babies into forgetting the traumatic experience of coming into this world, after inhabiting a room that was  _theirs alone_. But above all, it heated his skin with the warmth of  _promise_.  _Could_ ,  _should_ ,  _will_.

Jamie’s own father had been a remarkable man; he had led by example, first in life and then in memory. Brian Fraser had been the mould that his son had used to shape himself; although always feeling that he came several pieces  _too short_. The legacy of that blood was almost irresistible and the need to  _love_  and  _guide_  and  _defend_ , as his father had done until his last breath, pulsed through him like a second heart.

His eyes soon left the quiet snores and faint wails to fix themselves on the other occupants of the space.  _The mothers_.

There was  _something about them_  that transcended humanity; as if in the process of offering life to another being they had touched divinity. It was a sense of  _infinitude_  that no man could completely grasp, even if equally involved in the process of conception. Their boundaries had expanded to accommodate another existence and by doing so those women had allowed other things in –  _light_ ,  _love_ ,  _selflessness_.

For a moment, Jamie closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself with his hand placed on the swollen belly of a faceless woman.  _A recognizing kick_ ,  _a startle_ ,  _open smiles_.  _Later on, a Gaelic song in the middle of the night to comfort a bad dream_.  _A rugby match - or even playing with dolls, since he had plenty of experience from his years with Jenny_.   _Braving the waves together, hand in hand_.  _Infinite books, to name letters and later on bones and organs_.  _Boyfriends_ ,  _girlfriends_ ,  _heartbreak_ ,  _joy awaiting_.  _Children of his children, blood of his blood_.

But the image was  _imperfect_ , like a movie filled with static; or a canvas in which the paint, instead of drying, had slowly oozed down, covering and hiding the full image.

The house he had just seen in his mind’s eye had  _no skylight_. The little girl had  _no unruly curls_  to speak of. He didn’t recognize  _those iliac bones_ , around which the stretch marks nestled like grapevines. The  _palm of the hand securing his_  didn’t know a thing about the circumstances in which his life line came to be so crooked.

_Claire didn’t live in that house with him_. With  _them_.

He grew old  _without her_.

Jamie felt sick and nauseous, as if the blood coursing through his veins was suddenly  _wrong_. Wrong in its type, in the way it ran, in the gurgle it made against the valves of his heart. That blood was not part of him –  _another woman was not part of him_.

He stood between a collision of dreams.  _His dream of her_ ,  _his dream of children_.

But Claire was more than a dream. She was  _real_ , flesh that he had loved countless times,  _dreams of her own_. She was  _challenges_ , _thrills_ ,  _renewals_ ,  _passions_. She had thought him worthy when he couldn’t even begin to count himself amongst the living.

He loved her.  _Christ, he loved her_.

And for the last four nights he hadn’t touched her, after their conversation. He had acted like maybe he didn’t. He had placed them both outside the shelter of each other’s  _home_.

_She didn’t ask him to leave. He didn’t go._

_They laid together in bed, but as far away as possible. Backs turned like shields, against the weaponry of each other’s hurtful disputes. There was a wall of words separating them, pilled on top of each other, spilled from their mouths in the heat of their previous argument._

_“Why?” Jamie finally questioned in a whisper, tired of pretending to be asleep. His hands ached, empty of her. “I want to understand.”_

_“Do you really?” He heard Claire’s voice, muffled against the pillow. The inflection in her voice told him she had been crying. He turned and almost touched her, on the prominence of the spinous process of her seventh cervical vertebrae. Vertebra prominens. Jamie loved to kiss her there, where so much of her was exposed._

_“Aye, I do.” He quietly confirmed, watching the soft movements of her back as she breathed deeply. “Is it because of yer job?”_

_“Having a child would be hard because of what I do, of course.” Claire placed a curl behind her ear, sighing deeply. There was an almost invisible scar there, that he had covered with his teeth time and again.  A new kind of hurt, a delightful one. “Being a surgeon and the Chief. The long hours away from home and constant exhaustion. Having a baby just to surrender it to someone else’s care most of the time.” Her fingers played with the fold of the light blue sheet, small forget-me-nots embroidered on the edge. “But that’s not it – not really.”_

_“Are ye afraid ye wouldna be a good mother?” Jamie tried to guess, watching as a silver shadow danced on the brown of her hair, a glimpse of how it would look many years in the future. Everything about her was silver-gilt, opal, luminous in the dimness of the room. “Because I ken ye would –“_

_“Stop.” She pleaded in a small voice. The hurt in it was enough to silence him. “Just – don’t say it.”_

_For a moment they only listened to the rain, starting to lightly tap the glass of the skylight, as if the skies wanted to make sure their conversation remained private, drowning their words in its embrace. Finally, Claire tilted her head – enough for him to see the outline of her face instead of only the back of her head, the moistness in her lashes, the stress-induced creases around her beautiful caramel eyes. “I never doubted that you’d think that I’d be a good mother. And I feel even more terrible about it.” A heartbeat, two. “I won’t apologize for what I am, but I am sorry for the hurt I’m causing you, Jamie.”_

_“I still dinna understand.” He pressed, as gently as he could. Jamie yearned to touch her in a way that kept anger at bay, but he feared he would lose himself completely in her without getting the answers he sought._

_“I don’t hate children either, as some might think of every woman who doesn’t want to bear a child. I’m not the hag in the gingerbread house.” She sniffled, a recalcitrant teary laughter hidden in her words. “And yes, I have plenty of baggage related to the absence of a real family while I was growing up, but believe it or not, I do know happy families are a reality. I’ve heard of all of these pre-conceptions before.”_

_Jamie finally gained courage and the tip of his fingers reluctantly touched the salient bone of her wrist. “Then why?”_

_“You might think me selfish.” The air caught in her throat, making her voice quiver. “And I guess it’s your right, although I don’t see it that way.” She licked her lips, moistening the chapped skin with the tip of her tongue. He wanted to kiss her, then, to stop her from saying the definitive words that followed. “I know my purpose in life. I don’t feel like anything is missing – you and I are enough for me. More than enough - everything. And I don’t think this feeling is mercurial or a disease that I need to be cured of.”_

_“Do ye think ye can change yer mind?” He swallowed hard, his voice almost breaking. “In time?”_

_“There is always a possibility.” Claire answered, her fingers seeking the reassurance of the Rod of Asclepius, asleep on the skin above her breasts. “But I don’t think I will.” She finished softly. “And I want you to know that I never saw you as damaged. Never. You have been in repair, as have I. That doesn’t take anything away from us.”_

_“I shouldn’t have presumed.” Jamie gulped down hard. Unshed tears, disappointment, frustration, grief. “I should have asked ye where ye stood on the matter early on.” Before he had given her his whole heart. Before she had given him hers._

_Before she had looked at him for the first time and he was lost._

_“I want you to know,” She said quietly, rolling slightly on her back to stare at the ceiling. “That I understand that this is something that cannot be replaced. Neither of us can – should – be forced into accepting something we can’t make peace with. I can’t have a child for your sake only and maybe you can’t let go of that part of you without resenting me in time.” Her eyes finally met his, full on. He had never seen her that vulnerable. “So, I understand if you feel the need to move on – to try and find someone that can share that life with you, Jamie.”_

_With so many words, she had relieved him of his promise._

He hadn’t answered her, then. The pain of loss was engulfing him, blinding like an explosion inside his own orbits. Somewhere there was an uproar building up,  _a firm denial_ , a reassertion of every time he had called himself  _hers_. But words had failed him and eventually she had fallen into a disturbed sleep only to raise well before him in the morning.

The next three days had been a tale of awkwardness whenever they met briefly, their schedules almost totally disconnected. They were cordial with each other, but avoided each other’s eyes and didn’t dare to broach the subject.  _Their hearts, masterfully hidden inside their sleeves_.

It was late when Jamie finally entered the house, after hours roaming the almost empty hallways of the hospital.  _Thinking_ ,  _wishing_ ,  _feeling freely_.

Claire was curled up on her side of the bed, facing the place where he would lay down next to her, her expression denouncing her fatigue. Her hand was slightly outstretched,  _reaching out_  in her sleep. Her beauty struck him as otherworldly in that small eternity.

“ _And who would hold my heart and soul as ye do_?” He said in a husky voice, not daring to touch her yet.

Jamie undressed slowly, mindful of each movement of joint, skin, bone. Aware of the pull every fibre of his being,  _the deep tissue_ , exerted towards the sleeping woman. He waited for her to hear him,  _to come back to him_.

Ultimately her eyes opened to peek at him, small slits as he came to focus within her eyes. He padded to the bed and laid down next to her, his left palm cupping her cheek in reverence.

“ _Mo ghraidh_.” Jamie murmured. By the soft sob that escaped her mouth, he understood that she  _knew what it meant_. “ _I want ye, Claire_.” He said, his voice stripped down to vocal chords clasping, to pure sound, to breath in his lungs yearning to be shared with her. Every syllable echoed with _finality_ and  _regret_  and  _longing_  and _tenderness_  and  _love_. “I want  _ye_. No matter the cost.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one chapter to go!


	13. Suture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was a labour of love. Mine, to this vision I so wanted to write. Yours, to me. To the ones who saw something in this and stayed until the end, slàinte mhath. To the ones who had to leave at some point because they didn’t identify with it any longer, slàinte mhath. To the ones who engaged in respectful dialogue and conversation, slàinte mhath. Thank you!

##  **_Part XIII – Suture_ **

_Surgery together_. It was like  _making love_.

_His hands_ ,  _her hands_ , working in such closeness to achieve a common goal – not completion of their bodies, but wholeness to another. The way they communicated without words, with simple glances above the rim of their masks and subtle movements of half-curved fingers.

In the operating theatre they saw each other for what they really were; and on the nights following days of shared work, they would always seek one another with renewed desire.  _Certainty_.  _You and I are the same._   _You love me as I need to be loved_.

Claire remembered those moments with  _longing_ , flashes of dirtied scrubs and bloody gloves, interspersed with fragments of a walk in the park or a new book under the shelter of fresh sheets  _– kids in a tent_ , the moon outside so close, those centimetres of tangled bodies  _theirs alone_.

And the look Jamie gave her, when she entered the OR ahead of him and moved to the position of assisting surgeon, wordlessly inviting him to be first surgeon after such a long time. “It’s time, Fraser.” She nodded subtly, encouraging him. “ _You lead_.”

He had not wavered,  _not once_. She recognized instants of self-doubt in him, but he surrendered completely to the task that came to both as naturally as breathing. Like one of his sketches, he became more defined with each passing day, his lines stronger and bolder under the pencil of his resolution.

Afterwards, when Claire was alone washing her hands after discarding gown and gloves, Jamie kissed the back of her neck in passing – his lips pressed hotly against her skin, slightly parted, his tongue darting to taste her. Somehow the fugitive touch felt as intimate as his hand between her legs, when she was slick and salt-crazed.

They walked together along the hallway, their elbows purposefully banging against each other, a clear provocation of bodies.  _Calling out_. “Ye’re  _naked_  as soon as I get ye home.” Jamie confided, his index finger slowly grazing the sensitive skin inside her wrist.

“Oh, here you are girls!” Claire smiled pleasantly to cover her inner turbulence, noticing two young women nearby in incandescently white lab coats –  _shining with newness_  -, the blue scrubs of the  _Royal Infirmary_  peeking underneath.

One was tall, with jet-black hair and the grey eyes of a prowling wolf; the other was shorter, with brown hair and hazel eyes, her tanned skin an indication of a fierce love for a life close to the sun.

“Jamie, may I introduce you Rachel Hunter and Malva Christie? They are our new –  _very promising_  – surgical residents.” She gave Jamie a significant –  _warning_ – look, when she felt him startle at the mention of the name  _Christie_. “Malva is Tom’s younger sister.” Her lips trembled slightly. “I’ll be supervising her residency and I thought you could tutor Rachel, if that’s alright with you?”

“ _Hunter_?” Jamie greeted Rachel with a warm smile and an amicable handshake. “Are ye by any chance related to  _Denzell Hunter_?”

“He is my  _brilliant_ older brother.” The woman chortled in a clear American accent, amused. “Or so  _he says_.”

“Ah!” Jamie snorted, his full mouth opening in a split grin. Claire sensed a slight gasp coming from Malva when Jamie smiled openly; but when she turned her head to look at her, the brunette’s face was completely impassive.  _Poised_. “Denny was a good mate in college. He used to tell me stories about his sister, so it’s verra bonny to finally put a face to his words. How is he doing? Last I heard he was back in America.”

“Yes.” Rachel confirmed, placing her hands inside the big pockets of her lab coat. “He has been working at a hospital in North Carolina. But he’s heard that the  _Royal Infirmary_  is looking for another attending and I’m close to convincing him to apply.”

“I have a bit of  _influence_ with the Chief.” Jamie playfully looked at Claire from the corner of his eye, his disastrous complicit wink making the girls giggle. Undoubtedly, they had already heard that the surgeons were a couple. “It would be fantastic to have Denny here. Send him my best, will ye?”

“Of course, Doctor Fraser.” She waved her hand, a green stethoscope dangling from it. Her companion stood silent observing them – her gaze wasn’t exactly irking, but circumspect.  _Studying_. “Malva and I were just going to scavenge the skills lab.”

“Perfect.” Claire encouraged them, her palm distractedly roaming to touch Jamie’s back. Reassuring herself. “Rounds at 8 a.m. tomorrow. Don’t be late, doctors.”

“They seem like nice lasses.” The male surgeon commented, as they continued to walk towards the locker room. “Good additions to the department, aye?”

“Yes.” Claire scrunched her nose and raised her brows, feeling the hot-rod of jealousy churning inside her belly. “And very beautiful too, are they not? Malva particularly is a striking young woman.”

“Are they?” Jamie shrugged, pushing the door open and holding it for her to pass ahead of him. He seemed to be fighting the urge to laugh openly. “I didna notice it.  _Fuck_ , I was still planning what I’m going to do to ye tonight,  _well into dawn_. I dinna think we will be sleeping at all.”

She blushed slightly, but clenched her teeth, stubbornly holding on to her irrational insecurities. “They were  _quite taken_  with you, of course.  _You_  – with your  _ridiculous_ height,  _irritatingly handsome_  face,  _terribly huge_  hands,  _disgustingly toned_  arse peeking from those loose scrubs and –“

“Oh God, ye  _truly are_  jealous.” He stared at her in awe, a hint of appreciation –  _smugness_ – shinning in the deep pools of blue of his eyes. “They are  _naught to me_ , Beauchamp. Wee lassies for us to help turning into surgeons, nothing more.”

“They certainly are not that  _wee_.” Claire huffed, opening her locker. “Grown women, if you ask me, who clearly admire you.” Her voice lowered into an almost whisper. “Both of them probably willing to give you things that I can’t and I –“

“I meant what I’ve told ye, Claire.” Jamie leaned against the wall, watching her as she took off her surgical cap and placed it in her locker. “Ye’re  _enough_  to me. I will live happily by yer side without bairns and count myself a blessed man.” He tilted his head, a small smile dawning on his lips. “But  _I do_ _want_   _something_  in return.”

“Are you  _bargaining with me_?” She asked flabbergasted, her mouth ajar. Her curls cascaded around her face, wild and unrestrained, just as they did when he entangled his hands in them, lost in the pleasure of her body against his.

“No.” His smile deepened, but his eyes remained serious. _Intent_. “I’m asking for  _a compromise_. Isna that what a healthy relationship is about? Both of us establishing and nurturing each other’s needs and wants?”

Claire stared at him blankly, suspicious. The corner of her alluring mouth quirked in a teasing smile. “What is it that you want, Fraser?”

Jamie licked his lips and, within two steps, was within touching distance of her. The intensity of his gaze threatened to burn her to ash, to a pile of melted matter that only his hands could shape into existence. “ _I want to be married to ye_.”

“What?!” Her eyes widened, planets on the verge of explosion, the beginning of a black hole to absorb him completely – into  _destruction_ , _nothingness_ ,  _a new beginning_.

“Aye.” He nodded firmly, confirming that she had heard him correctly. “I want that bond between us. I’m already fully committed to ye and ye to me – but I want to be able to name it in my heart.”

“Jamie, I’m not the marry-at-the-church-with-a-puffy-dress kind of woman –“ Claire tried to reason, but his smile only broadened. He was incredibly tender and the heat of him almost made her dizzy.

“I dinna need  _that_.” He said simply, entwining their fingers together.  _Left hand_  with  _right hand_ , their strongest hands finding each other. “I dinna need priest nor church. I only need yer word that ye are my wife from this day ‘till our life shall be done.  _Yer promise_.” Jamie traced her slowly, from temple to jaw, his fingertip familiar with the shape of her. “ _Yer word_  has always been  _enough_ to me, Claire.”

“ _Yes_.” Claire whispered back, almost breathless. “Yes.   _I’ll marry you_ , Jamie.” She lovingly touched his bottom lip, her thumb drawing a slow circle. “Where should we do it?”

“ _Here_.” Jamie said without hesitation. The locker room was deserted, except for them, dipped in the warm greyish light of late afternoon. “We can handfast  _right here_. I feel it would be only right to do it where it all began, aye?”

“Well,” Claire patted her stained scrub pants, undoubtedly self-conscious, biting her bottom lip in hesitance. “Should I change my clothes and comb –  _tame_ – my hair? I’m sweaty and frumpy. A total mess.”

“Ye’re beautiful.” His fingers caressed her slender and elegant neck, awakening shivers down her spine - and a consuming desire  _to have him,_  flat on his back, the graceful power of his frame trapped between her thighs. “Just as I’ve always seen ye. I could know ye all my life and always love ye.”

“Just like this, then.” She smiled, touching her pendant. “How do we go about it? Shall we trade vows?”

“I dinna have a ring to give ye.” The male surgeon apologized haltingly, his eyes shining limpid, even if they were wrinkling in sudden concern. “I should have thought about it.”

“We can use this.” The female surgeon fished inside her open locker, only to produce a small metallic packet containing a sterile silk suture. Claire usually kept a couple of different sutures in her purse and in the bathroom’s cabinet at home, in case of any domestic accidents. “It’s maybe a little  _unconventional_ , but it might work for the time being.”

She dexterously opened the package, revealing the thin blue thread, trapped to a small-yet-robust arched needle. A braided suture meant for  _approximation_  and _ligation_.

In surgery, the ideal knot has five throws to maximize tensile strength and rate of untying.  _Five_  is the magical number in which the pull to come together is enough for flesh to meet again, to force the unwillingness of bridging the gap of hurt; all the while without the borders actually overriding each other, losing definition –  _self_ –, or exerting enough pressure for them to wish to unfasten.

Palming the needle in a protective way, Claire gently reached for Jamie’s left hand; he offered it to her without preamble, palm down. “ _James Fraser_ ,” Looking into his eyes –  _infinitely blue_ , _alight_ ,  _joyful_ – she moved her fingers to perform the first hand-knot around his ring finger.  _“I give you my love and a heart that will not waver.”_

The first knot is  _the brake_  – it stops an entire suture from coming undone. It’s  _the beginning_ , the foundation, the root to a tree of life. Everything that comes afterwards rely on the strength of that first bond.

Twisting the thread in between her fingers, she quickly tied another knot, this time in reverse direction.  _“I give you the service of my hands and the knowledge of my calling.”_

_One more_ , her hands shaking from overwhelming emotion. The fingers of his free hand squeezed hers.  _“I give you my body and every scar it may bear.”_

_A turn_ , the almost inaudible whistle of a suture running, her hand pressing against his. “ _I give you my soul and a place to bare your own_.”

_A final knot_ , her capable hands skilfully tying it together. Her clear voice sounded like  _promises_ ,  _tomorrows_ ,  _futures to behold_. Jamie’s eyelashes were filled with moistness and she could feel tears of joy blooming on the corners of her own eyes. “ _I give you my life and all my days to come_.”

Silently –  _worshipfully_  – Claire handed him the thread, still attached to the knots on his finger. After a suture is done, the cutting of ties ensures that it can hold on its own – but in that, they didn’t want to hold on their own. What mattered is that they would hold  _together_.

“ _Claire Beauchamp_.  _I love ye_.” Jamie leaned to press his forehead against hers – their breaths mingling - and repeated her gestures, somewhat clumsy in a one-handed fashion. Words –  _vows_ \- dotted with meaning, sounding ancient and powerful in the lilt of his deep voice. The silk thread grew shorter, bringing their hands ever closer.

When he was finished, Jamie and Claire stood there with their hands linked,  _transfixed_.  _Sutured together_ , like the edges of a wound – slightly jagged on their own, but made complete by the other’s presence. Capable of healing; of avoiding bloodletting; of allowing new skin to grow over their union, fortifying them.

_Whole, together_.

_**Scrub Out** _


End file.
